


like real people do

by nobodysusername



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:29:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23696218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nobodysusername/pseuds/nobodysusername
Summary: The asset watches Steve intently. “What makes you think I need help?”“I don’t know if you need help,” Steve answers, “but I’m offering it.”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 45
Kudos: 128





	1. like real people do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “About the house,” Steve grins. “Do you like it?”   
> “It’s nice,” the asset—James—says amenably. He doesn’t know what the house would have to be like for him not to like it; it’s a house.

James Buchanan Barnes, the asset thinks, is a stately name. It does not strike him as particular familiar or meaningful—not even particularly American, but certainly Anglo-Saxon. The nickname, on the other hand, is inelegant. It’s childish, and he wonders when it was bestowed upon James Barnes.

He’s been reading up on James Barnes: the lore, the history, really any open-source records he can find. The research is slow and painstaking, because the asset has barely read anything since his original reprogramming, but at least his brain still remembers how to do it. There are various biographies, many offering different perspectives and theories regarding “Bucky” and his life. Some academics refer to him as “a life-long bachelor” as if that means anything when applied to someone who died at twenty-seven and spent his last few years at war. The asset thinks this is interesting, if only because it says something about what interests the academics.

He reads about Steven Grant “Steve” Rogers, too, though not as extensively. He’d been briefed on his target—former target—before his last mission, at least enough to know the basics. The additional data he gleans come from his biographies of Bucky, rather than any independent investigation of Steve.

The asset likes conducting research. He is discreet for obvious reasons, and he has been extremely thorough. He now knows Bucky’s birthday, birthplace, the names of his immediate family members, important names, places, and dates from his adulthood, and a fair amount of trivia. None of it is enough to craft a convincing alias, though. The difficulty is in the fact that Bucky is—was—real. If the asset adopts his identity, there will be an expectation of consistency between the dead Bucky and the impersonator; the expectation will be that there is no impersonator, and that Bucky is alive. The asset knows better than to dig up ghosts like that.

He’s reading the first biography of Bucky, published just after the war and with an introduction by Howard Stark. He had skipped the introduction initially, but now that he’s approaching the end of the book he feels an obligation to go back and read it. On the subject of digging up ghosts…

But Howard’s insights offer nothing that hasn’t been written by a hundred scholars already, and his words about his “short-lived but close friendship” with Bucky do nothing but stir up an uncomfortable feeling for the Winter Soldier. He had killed this man, who had written so fondly about him. About Bucky, at least.

The asset knows that another encounter with Steve is inevitable, but he’s been stalling for as long as he can. It’s easy to stay off the grid once you’ve been taken off it, but Steve surely has a number of resources at his disposal that give him the upper hand. The asset moves often for this reason, pays in cash only, does his best to avoid attention.

He’s been mostly stateside, especially since taking to this research project. This is another point in Steve’s favor: he has less ground to cover in order to trace the asset. That said, the asset suspects Steve’s searching has been mostly overseas. He would have caught up by now if that weren’t the case. Or perhaps the asset is overestimating his pursuer.

The asset has tested out this name from his past a few times, tried to wear it and fit within its confines, but it’s impossible: he is not Bucky. He doesn’t mind James so much, though. A perfectly innocuous name. It means “one who follows.” There’s a kind of humor to that, the asset suspects. He is not the follower right now, though—that’s Steve. Assuming Steve really is pursuing him.

There are days when the asset does not rouse himself to research. He sits in the corner of his rented room, watching the door and listening to the sounds from the halls. He passes hours like this and wishes he could be the hallway noise instead of its concealed audience. This is a kind of neurosis, he thinks. But there is nothing he can do about it, there is no resisting this urge. Some days are for productivity, research days, and others are for neuroses, this vigilant catatonia.

After he finishes the biography with Howard’s introduction, he has one of these days, and that is when Steve finally catches up. He knows when he hears those familiar boots, suspects that he would recognize their timber on the floor anywhere although he does not know why. It’s a soldier’s step, and a confident gait, and it occurs to the asset that Steve is doing this on purpose, giving the asset a chance to escape. Fascinated by this courtesy, the asset waits in his corner, chin resting on his knees. His mask is on and his weapons are with him, but he is dressed in civilian clothes. He suspects he would look rather foolish to anyone other than Steve and decides that this is reason enough to hope he is not wrong about the footsteps.

He hears the high beep of a keycard granting entry to his room, and watches Captain America step inside. Steve is also dressed in civilian gear, and unarmed. He looks at the asset, who looks back at him.

“Bucky,” he says as the door clicks shut behind him.

The asset does not answer.

Steve looks around briefly, surveying the room, and then back at the Winter Soldier. “Can I come closer?”

The asset nods, adjusting his grip on his knife slightly. He’s confident that Steve won’t hurt him but unwilling to let go of practical caution. He watches Steve cross the room, coming toward him. Suddenly he feels tense squatting between the wall and the nightstand beside the bed. He feels—embarrassed that Steve has found him like this. He wants to stand, if only to free him from the appearance of vulnerability and smallness that he is no doubt projecting, but Steve is already kneeling before him so that they are close to eye level.

“Took you a while,” the asset says. Steve laughs at that, surprised and pleased.

“Didn’t know you were waiting,” he answers. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” the asset says.

“Do you—have you remembered anything?” Steve looks hopeful, and seeing it written so plainly on his face makes the asset look away. Hope: it’s not something he’s used to seeing in people’s expressions, but it seems he can’t stop seeing it when Steve is near.

“No,” he answers, meeting Steve’s eyes. Then, because he realizes he doesn’t want to disappoint Steve too much, he adds, “I’ve been reading about him, though.”

“Him? Bucky?” Steve asks. The Winter Soldier nods.

“That’s good,” Steve says, nodding as well. He drags his hand over his jawline; the asset tracks the movement. “Thank you for letting me find you,” Steve says after a few silent moments have passed. The asset doesn’t answer, merely continues looking at Steve.

Steve moves as if to touch the asset, but the asset looks at him sharply and he aborts the gesture, his hand instead moving to press against the floor. The asset glances at the hand and then back at Steve’s face. “Sorry,” Steve says, sounding sincere. The sincerity in Steve’s voice unnerves him.

“Why did you want to find me?” the asset asks, because it’s becoming clear that Steve is not going to explain himself without prompting.

“Buck, you’re my best friend,” Steve says, pained. “I—well, we’ve lost seventy years together, in more than one sense, and I want to help you. I want to know that you’re alright.”

The asset doesn’t know how to point out that Bucky is very much _not_ alright, because he is dead, without upsetting Steve, so he refrains. He simply says, “I am not your Bucky.”

Steve looks like he’s not sure what to say to that, but after a moment he nods, looking down. “Right,” he says, looking at the asset again. “But you’re what’s left of him, and you deserve… I don’t know, you deserve a friend in your corner.”

“Is that what you are?” the asset asks.

“Yes,” Steve says firmly. “So, if you’ll let me, I swear I’ll do everything I can to help you.”

The asset watches Steve intently. “What makes you think I need help?”

“I don’t know if you need help,” Steve answers, “but I’m offering it.”

The asset isn’t sure what to do with that answer, so he gestures for Steve to move back and then stands, joints cracking from the sudden release. “Okay,” he says.

*

Steve takes him to New York, of course, but not to the city. Instead, they go upstate. It’s quieter, the pace of life is different, the asset can tell as much even as he watches the highway traffic along the Hudson. The drive from Connecticut (home of his most recent hideout) is short; it’s strange to think how close he’d brought himself to Steve, without intention.

The roads become increasingly rural and desolate until they’re surrounded by corn fields and stretches of woods. Even then the drive continues on, in the direction of high rolling hills, until they turn onto a narrow road that leads directly into a patch of forest.

“We’re here,” Steve says, though they are still driving in the woods and there is not a manmade structure to be seen. The asset says nothing, only looks at Steve and then back ahead. A few minutes later, they finally reach a house. The road is, apparently, a driveway. The asset recalls seeing a mailbox way back at the turn—inconvenient for the homeowner, though Steve Rogers surely wouldn’t mind the workout. 

The asset steps out of the car, shouldering his bag of gear, and waits for Steve to lock the car before following him to the front door. How funny it is to see Captain America playing house. He wonders what kind of home he keeps.

A tidy one, it turns out: once Steve flips the switch there is warm lighting, and the walls hold a lot of art. The asset looks around, curious, as Steve kicks off his shoes.

“If you don’t mind,” Steve says, gesturing to the Winter Soldier’s boots. He acquiesces after a moment, fascinated. This is not the Steve Rogers of his brief, he thinks, though he believes he can trace a connection between this one and the one so frequently discussed in the books about Bucky. The love of art; the warmth. The asset understands why Steve and Bucky were often described as “pieces of home for each other.” This place has a certain quality that evokes a sense of protection, safety. A sense of home, even, though not for the asset.

“Do your superiors know you found me?” the asset asks then, as Steve begins to ascend the stairs.

“My superiors?” Steve asks, turning to look at the asset. “No, I don’t really have any right now. The only ones who know I was even searching are Sam—the one with the wings—and Nat, Natasha. You know her.”

The asset recalls, vaguely, the man and woman who had forestalled completion of the Winter Soldier’s (still unconsummated) last mission. “And they will come here?” he asks.

“No, Natasha isn’t here and Sam’s—well, Sam might come. If you want him to?” Steve is still looking at the asset, waiting for a reaction or a response. The asset isn’t sure what to offer in return, so he just shakes his head slightly.

“Alright,” Steve says. “Then it’s just the two of us, unless you had other tails.”

“Or you,” the asset says. He thinks their conversations have a sense of camaraderie, and he credits the Bucky books with having fomented it. The asset feels like he knows Steve, knows him more than he actually does. He’s read so much about him.

“Or me,” Steve agrees. “Now follow me upstairs, I’ll show you your room.” They go upstairs. 

The bedroom is nice, the asset thinks. He likes that there are no windows.

“There aren’t any windows,” Steve says awkwardly. “I thought—I thought maybe you wouldn’t want any, but if you want natural light there’s another room…” he trails off, looking uncertain.

“This is nice,” the asset answers.

“Great,” Steve smiles at him. It’s too easy to read the emotions on his face, he is too earnest; the asset looks away.

They go downstairs, where Steve points out a few other rooms: living room, kitchen, library. In the basement there is a training room. There is a bathroom on every floor. Steve even tells the asset where he can find the floor plans in the library.

Things are moving so quickly, the asset thinks. He’d had so much time to research, spent so much time studying, and now he feels lost and uncertain; he is out of his depth here with Steve.

“You said you’re not Bucky,” Steve says as he boils some pasta in the kitchen. The asset is seated at the table, watching. “So, what do you call yourself? Or is there something you want me to call you?”

The asset realizes that he can choose any name, can become any person—that he need not be restricted to the realm of James Buchanan Barnes. But this realization has come too late; he has spent far too much time reading about the other man’s life not to acknowledge this debt. So he confesses, “James.”

“James,” Steve says, trying out the name. “What do you think, James?”

“About what?” the asset asks. The name James doesn’t belong to him, and he is hyperaware of this now, looking at the real James’ best friend. But there is no other name for the asset, and so he resolves to adapt to it.

“About the house,” Steve grins. “Do you like it?”

“It’s nice,” the asset—James—says amenably. He doesn’t know what the house would have to be like for him not to like it; it’s a house. Houses don’t strike him as things to be liked or disliked, so much as simply used and occupied.

In the kitchen, they eat in silence, and Steve serves James a second plate of food without asking. It’s been two months of mostly greasy spoon food, so the pasta (garnished with herbs and served with a leafy vegetable) is a welcome change, though James is not picky.

“What will you do with me?” James asks once they’ve both finished eating. He looks across the table at Steve, curious for his response. He knows that something must be done with him: he is not normal, is barely human, right now. He requires molding—someone will have to bend him into the right shape for this new life out of cryostasis and away from his HYDRA handlers.

“What will I…?” Steve looks baffled by the question, and James feels awkward then. A misstep. He drops his gaze. “I won’t do anything,” Steve says then, slowly. “I thought—well, what do you want me to do?”

The question and the autonomy it invites unnerve the asset ( _James_ ) and he waits for Steve to say more, looking up at him once more.

“Buck—James,” Steve says, his voice firm but not unkind. “I didn’t go after you because I have expectations of you or because I want to _use_ you or something. I just want to be here for you. Offer my help.” He looks away, then, his gaze turning to a painting on the wall opposite them. James follows the turn of his head before looking back at him.

“If you don’t want to stay here, that’s fine,” Steve continues. “If you want to get out of this life, then I suppose it’s for the better that you don’t stick around with me. But don’t run away without talking to me, okay? Please.”

James nods his compliance, though of course Steve doesn’t see. “What will we do here, then?” he asks.

Steve looks back at James and smiles. “To be honest, I hadn’t thought that far. I wasn’t sure I’d ever catch up to you.”

“You have to work,” James says.

“Sometimes, yeah. But I shouldn’t have to for a while. When it has to happen, I’ll tell you.”

James wonders what he will do in Captain America’s house when Captain America is not here with him. He wonders what he’ll do when Captain America _is_ here. There are so many factors, so many variables, governing his context right now. Pure entropy.

“Do you want to watch some TV?” Steve asks then, standing to clear the dishes from the table.

“Okay,” James says, standing up as well.

After Steve loads the dishwasher, they migrate to the living room. Steve puts on a hockey game. James watches intently but his mind is elsewhere. He’s pondering Steve. The books did not mention sports, except to say that Bucky excelled in them as a child. The books did not mention Steve’s favorite hockey team—did not mention hockey at all. He is at a loss: how can he apply his knowledge here?

They sit with nearly the entire length of the couch between them. James has placed himself out of the window’s view, near the doorway without being overtly vulnerable to it. Steve seems not to have thought about exit strategies: he simply sat down beside James, leaving a wide margin between them. This does not strike James as normal, but it is not strictly abnormal.

They watch until the end of the game, and then Steve turns off the television.

“I don’t know when you normally sleep, but I’ve been on the road for about a week looking for you, so I’m beat. Do you have everything you need?”

“Everything I need?” James echoes, uncertain. What does he need? He has his weapons (knife in his pocket, the rest of it upstairs).

“Toothbrush, night clothes, that stuff.” Steve looks at James expectantly, and seeing no sign of recognition, he continues: “I’ll take that as a no, then. Come up with me and I’ll give you stuff.”

James follows Steve, who leads him to the bathroom. There, he rummages through a drawer under the sink until he finds a packaged toothbrush and a small blue container.

“This is floss,” Steve says, holding up the container. “Do you know how to use these things?”

The question makes James feel stupid, because he can tell by surveying the products on the sink that these are staples of daily life. Their use seems intuitive enough, and he trusts his muscle memory (more than his conscious memory, in any case), so he nods.

Next Steve leads him to his—Steve’s—bedroom. “You can borrow some of my clothes for now, and we’ll get you your own stuff in the next few days, if you’re up for it.”

He pulls open a drawer and withdraws a pair of soft looking pants and a t-shirt, handing them to James. “Tomorrow I can give you something new to wear after you shower, just come get me.”

“Okay,” James says.

“Go ahead and use the bathroom while I change,” Steve says, gesturing back to the hall. James obeys.

In the bathroom, he first brushes his teeth and then flosses (both packages, conveniently, have instructions). He savors the minty taste in his mouth; it’s different. After that he changes into the clothing Steve has lent him.

When he opens the bathroom door, Steve is standing there. He smiles. “Good night,” he says, lowering his head slightly.

“Good night,” James says back.

*

James does not like lying on the bed, so he crawls underneath the frame and lies there in the dark until morning. He dozes eventually and is awoken by a soft knock on the closed door. The room is still pitch dark because of the lack of windows. How long had he slept?

Before he can respond to the sound, Steve has opened the door. He turns on the light. James watches his socked feet step toward the bed, and he pushes himself out from under it.

“Jesus,” Steve says.

“Hello,” James says.

“Sorry for coming in like this,” Steve apologizes, sheepish. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t run off on me in the night.” He makes no comment about James being under the bed, which James thinks is rather polite of him. “Do you want breakfast?”

“Yes,” James says. He stands and rolls back his human shoulder, which cracks slightly. The metal arm recalibrates as well, and Steve watches the plates ripple. James feels self-conscious but says nothing.

They go downstairs together.

Steve makes eggs and toast for both of them, and sets out a carton of orange juice and two glasses. They eat in silence again. Afterward, Steve says, “I was wondering. Do you want to cut your hair? It looks pretty—” here, he gestures vaguely. James does not know what he means, but if Steve wants his hair to be shorter, he sees no reason to object.

“Okay,” he says.

“Yeah? Alright, after you shower I can cut it, then,” Steve says, nodding.

“Okay,” James repeats, nodding back. There are so many hours in a day, he thinks. How will they fill so much time when there is so much silence?

His showers are perfunctory, more a rinse than anything, but seeing Steve’s shower products lined up on the sill of the tub remind James of what he’s trying to be—human. He reads the labels and their directions, and meticulously follows their advice. He smells nice, afterward—in fact, he smells like Steve. His hair is less gnarled, and it occurs to him that this had been what Steve’s gesture meant.

Steve has given him more clothing, including new socks and underwear, and James dresses slowly to take in the feeling. It feels like he’s donning a costume, especially because the clothes are Steve’s, but the fabric is soft against his skin and when he looks in the mirror he notes that he looks more like Bucky than he had when Steve had found him. He touches his jaw, traces the facial hair there. He wonders if Steve will suggest shaving that as well, and finds himself hoping that he does.

Steve cuts his hair in the kitchen. James sits at the table with his head tilted back, a trash can between him and Steve. Steve cuts off long pieces of hair, unevenly and unceremoniously. Once he’s done hacking away the length, he asks if James wants to shave the rest.

“Sure,” James answers. He touches his jaw again. “And this?”

“Yeah, okay,” Steve agrees. He leads Bucky to the first-floor bathroom, and buzzes first his head and then his face. When he’s done with the first part, he brushes his hand over James’ newly shorn scalp, and James closes his eyes. He likes the sensation.

James watches Steve has he shaves his face. He likes the feeling of Steve’s fingers gently holding his jaw in place, and likes the concentration written in his expression. It’s fascinating to him, seeing the amount of care Steve is putting into something so trivial. He wonders why Steve hadn’t made him shave his own face, and is glad that he hadn’t.

When Steve is finished, he turns James around to see the end result. In the mirror, James looks even more like Bucky. It unnerves him, and he runs his hands over his scalp. The metal arm brings him back—this is him, the asset.

“Thank you,” he says.

“No sweat,” Steve says, smiling. “Do you want to go shopping today?”

James doesn’t really like the idea of going out in public but has no reason to be opposed. “Sure,” he says, because it’s Steve’s life he’s imposing on, and he’ll defer to Steve’s judgments.

“Great, we’ll get you some proper civvies.” Steve smiles so often, James thinks. More than the pictures show, even.

They drive a ways to get to the closest mall. Bucky wears a pair of Steve’s gloves to hide the metal, even though it’s not yet cold enough for gloves. It’s not so bad going through the different stores, although James can’t help but constantly survey his surroundings.

Steve buys him two pairs of shoes and a thick jacket in an outdoor gear store, and then they go into a proper clothing store. James lets Steve take the lead, because the choices are frankly overwhelming. Steve selects a few dark Henley shirts, a few pairs of jeans, and a couple of pullovers. James observes that the selection favors a color scheme distinct from Steve’s own wardrobe.

“Let’s go to the dressing rooms,” Steve says, tilting his head in their direction. James follows him to them, and after receiving a plastic placard from an employee, Steve steers James through to the row of stalls.

When he sees them, he anticipates his own discomfort but steels himself rather than disappoint Steve. The stalls are so narrow. Claustrophobia is the word, he recalls.

He enters with his collection of clothes, but the idea of taking off his shirt makes his skin clammy. He drops the items in a pile on the floor, clenching and unclenching his fists for a moment. He watches in the tripartite mirror as his arm recalibrates, can see the erratic heaving of his chest with his breathing. He tugs at the collar of his (Steve’s) shirt, and after a moment he turns around, opens the stall door. It feels too familiar.

“I can’t,” he says awkwardly. “Um.”

Steve’s confusion quickly gives way to concern as he looks at James. “We can just buy it, and what you don’t like we can return later,” he says. He lifts an arm, perhaps to pat James on the shoulder paternally, but drops it without following through.

“Sorry,” James says then, feeling slightly guilty. He’s ruined the excursion.

“No, don’t be,” Steve says. He edges around James to collect the clothing from the floor of the changing room as James watches him.

After Steve pays, they leave.

James assumes the drive home will be quiet, because Steve had spent the drive to the mall pointing things out (there shouldn’t be anything left to observe), but his prediction is incorrect.

“You don’t have to apologize for stuff like that,” Steve tells him once they’ve been on the empty road for a few minutes. “I get it—or, I don’t, really, but I understand.” He sighs, and then clarifies, “I can’t ever truly know what it’s like to go through what you’ve gone through… but I think I can understand some of it, at least.”

James appreciates the sentiment. “Thank you,” he says. This conversation feels very human to him. These are not words a person would say to a weapon, he thinks.

After that, Steve puts on the radio. “You’ve missed out on a lot of pop culture,” he says. “Time to start catching up.”

James watches the landscape pass as he listens to the music, and wonders what songs Bucky listened to. The biographies didn’t mention that.

Back at the house, they eat lunch and then Steve procures a thousand-piece puzzle. James is very good at puzzles. Steve is delighted by this, so James doesn’t tell him that it’s related to his programming. He assumes it’s good for him to keep these skills sharp, anyways, and he suspects Steve wouldn’t like James doing puzzles if he knew.

James can’t believe how many hours there are now that he is not on the move, not researching extensively, not being stored in cryo. He and Steve go on a long run in the woods (Steve’s property, it turns out) and then do calisthenics in his yard. They eat dinner, they watch hockey, they finish the puzzle. Steve goes to bed early, probably because he’s run out of things to do with James. James goes to bed too because he doesn’t know what else to do.

James lies under the bed again in the blackness, staring at nothing for hours. Eventually, though, he falls asleep. And tonight, he dreams.

When he startles awake, the door is cracked open and the room is lit by soft light from the hall. Steve must have opened it just now—he can hear footsteps moving away. James scrubs a hand over his face and is surprised to feel his fingers wet: he must have been crying. But why? James tries to recall his dream, retrieving only incoherent fragments. A set of words that means nothing together, a full-body pain, shouting. He closes his eyes in search of visuals, but comes up empty.

He goes downstairs still feeling muddled by the fragmentary remnants of his dreams.


	2. call out my name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He tries to imagine himself writing these words, closing his eyes to picture it. Coming up empty, he opens his eyes and finds Steve staring at him anxiously. Yes, this is a man made for poetry, he thinks as he looks at Steve. Of course Bucky would write so earnestly about him. Steve invites openness because he himself is open. That’s a dangerous thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has a lot going on. perhaps even too much.... pacing was never my strong suit (cue nervous laughter)

A week after the start of his domestic pseudo-life with Steve, James gets sick. Whatever it is that’s infected him, it ravages him completely. He wonders if it might be some kind of biological warfare but cannot think of a possible source. He might suspect Steve, but Steve is more worked up about it than James himself—it seems fair to rule him out.

He spends most of the first day on the floor of the bathroom, resting his cheek against the rim of the toilet bowl when he’s not vomiting. His skin feels sweaty and clammy, he knows without seeing himself that he looks like pure shit—worse than he probably looked when HYDRA found him (Bucky) in that snowy ravine, back in 1944.

Steve regularly wipes his face with a damp cloth and makes rounds to bring glasses of water and foods like crackers for him. It’s nice, it’s very human, James thinks. Whatever is making him sick like this, though, must not be very human, because James is not. This is not a normal person illness.

It continues for several days, mostly with James drinking a lot of water and eating very little, dry heaving when his stomach is empty and vomiting whatever he eats. After the third day of this relentless plague, Steve decides that the problem is not going to go away on its own.

“Do you mind if I call a friend to see if he can help you?” Steve asks. James doesn’t see how adding another person to the situation could make things worse than they are, so he allows it.

Steve calls Banner, who James recognizes from a precautionary briefing but has never seen in person. He feels dimly ashamed that their first meeting is in the present circumstances.

Together, Banner and Steve half-guide, half-drag James back to his bedroom and lay him on the bed. The bed is a new experience for James, who’s been sleeping on the bathroom floor the past few nights. He knows that Steve only allowed him to because he refuses to manhandle James, and he wonders if knowing this fact is the same as taking advantage of it.

Banner takes his temperature, his heart rate, listens to James’ breathing, and talks quietly to Steve for a few minutes before beginning his interrogation. James is too exhausted to throw up, so he hopes Banner won’t make him try to eat anything.

“When were you last in cryostasis?” he asks.

“Two months ago,” James mumbles. He closes his eyes because the room appears to be tilting.

“Do you remember the exact date?”

“Fourteenth,” James answers. He hears the scratch of a pencil. Since when is Banner taking notes?

“Do you know the longest you went outside cryostasis before this?”

Steve answers for him: “His memory was wiped after every mission, Bruce.”

At the same time, James says, “File,” but “Bruce” doesn’t seem to hear him. He struggles to make himself louder, repeating the word.

“What?” Banner’s voice is closer, so James opens his eyes.

“My bag,” James whispers. His own weakness amazes him. For obvious reasons he does not remember ever being in such bad condition, but he suspects this has never happened to the Winter Soldier. Perhaps it hadn’t even happened to Bucky. No, this kind of thing seemed to be more Steve’s domain.

He hears Steve move to the corner of the room, where James had placed his bag on the first day. He listens to the sound of Steve rifling, and watches Steve come back into his periphery, holding the HYDRA dossier he’d gone through the trouble of getting.

“Dates in there,” James says.

Banner takes the file from Steve, eyebrows raised at James. He’s impressed, which strikes James as funny in a way. Yes, the Winter Soldier is quite the savvy asset.

He flips through the papers in there and must find the chronology, because he begins writing again. “Okay,” he says. “This is pure conjecture, but I think your body is reacting to the prolonged exposure. The longest you were out of cryostasis—on the record, anyways—was actually fifty-two days, back in the 1960s, and today marks sixty days exactly.”

“Okay,” James says, because that means nothing to him. It’s not like he remembers it.

“The consensus within the scientific community is that the physiological and psychological effects of cryostasis don’t wear off for, and I’m sure you guys can see where I’m going, about sixty days. The stuff that’s thawing during this time is the more nuanced materials of the mind and body. So basically your body is re-adapting to natural human life.”

“Okay, then why the violent sickness?” Steve asks.

“There’s not really a precedent for this situation, so I couldn’t say for sure,” Banner says mildly. James likes this answer, and finds that he likes Banner too. “My guess is that his immune system temporarily shut down because of the constant wear-and-tear of being frozen and defrosted. That kind of thing ruins food so I imagine it would also ruin a person.”

“Watch it,” Steve says.

“Ruin _temporarily_ ,” Banner amends. “I can only assume the super serum will kick in again soon and then he’ll be right as rain—or his immune system will be, at least.” 

“But that’s just an assumption,” Steve says, dubious.

“Yeah. I can take a spit sample back to the lab and analyze it to see if it’s a virus, if you want. But I’m willing to bet it isn’t.”

“I trust you. When do you think it’ll be over, then?” Steve looks over at James, and so does Banner.

“This is what, the third day? I’ll say a week. Again, pure conjecture.”

Steve arranges for Banner to stay with them for the week to watch over the Winter Soldier and monitor his condition. James barely registers his presence after the initial questioning, because the sickness passes into a new phase at the end of the day: fever.

Sometimes he wakes up thrashing and shouting, and Steve is always there when this happens. He’s brought a chair into the bedroom so he can watch James, who observes this with dim amusement when he reclaims his lucidity after the first night.

The fever makes him dream. The dreams are garish and overwhelming, almost blinding—like staring into the sun. This time, things from before the programming start to surface. James dreams Bucky things, not just Winter Soldier things. He sees Steve, scrappy and scrawny, and he sees his sisters. How could he have ever forgotten them? Often, his face is damp with tears when he wakes up.

Once, when he wakes up, he sees and feels Steve’s hand holding his own. Steve is asleep in the chair beside the bed, and the feeling of their fingers laced together brings a dream—a memory—back to the fore of his mind. Yes, Steve had come to him, had found him, once before… during the war. He’d saved Bucky. Tried to, at least—and succeeded for a while.

*

He improves gradually. First the fever breaks, and then he stops dreaming. He forces himself to get out of bed at least twice a day, to stretch his legs and practice those newfound hygiene habits. He feels better when he gets back into the routine of washing in the shower and brushing his teeth, relishes that minty taste in his mouth.

He certainly feels worse than he had before it all began, and weaker—looks it, too. Still, he’s glad it happened: his body is adapting to this new life, post-Winter Soldier. At least physiologically speaking, that part of him and his history is being forgotten.

Banner is still at the house, and now that James is up and moving again— _living_ again, Steve had said at some point, which was interesting—he mostly stays out of the bedroom. When the bedroom-hallway-bathroom circuit becomes too boring, James ventures down to the kitchen. There, he finds Banner and Steve having coffee at the kitchen table. He finds them mid-conversation, and they fall silent when they see him.

“Hey,” Steve says, smiling at him. James likes the straightforwardness of his smile; it’s guileless. James thinks that it could even be called “trustworthy.” He gestures for James to join them at the table. “Coffee?” 

James shakes his head but sits in the seat beside Banner.

“I’m Bruce,” Banner (Bruce) says, offering his hand to shake. James looks at it for a moment and then takes it. Bruce shakes it awkwardly and afterward James realizes that he hadn’t gripped the hand properly (firmly). A dead fish handshake is what he’d done (where had he heard of that?). It’s been so long since he’s had to act human, he realizes—the few things he’s done with Steve have barely scratched the surface. He internally laments this failure, but Bruce has already moved on.

“We were just talking about you,” he says pleasantly, like that’s not a terrible thing. James looks at him with curiosity. “Your—sickness,” Bruce clarifies. “You seem a lot better now, and I have no reason to believe it’s not over. Oh, double negative, but you know what I mean. You should be fine from here.”

James nods, then looks at Steve to gauge his reaction. Steve nods in affirmation. “Just keep taking it easy,” he adds.

James smiles a little at that. What would he even do?

“Anyways, you should eat something other than crackers,” Steve says then with authority. “What do you want? Toast and eggs maybe?” James watches Steve glance at Bruce for approval of the menu, and then look back at him. Once Bruce gives Steve the okay, James nods in response. He thinks that Bruce and Steve are a little like his handlers now, but he doesn’t voice the thought. He knows that’s not true, anyways. Or if it is, the handling is radically different—hardly worth comparing, even.

He wonders if he should tell Steve about the dreams and the memories (he supposes they’re the same thing) but decides against it. He finds himself wanting to hear Steve call him “Bucky,” the way he had on the Triskelion and when he’d found him. He knows it won’t feel like being called his own name (nothing feels like that—not even in his—Bucky’s—memories), but he likes the way Steve says it. He imbues the name with such care; the syllables become something more than a name. Like a promise, or a plea. James is so impersonal and remote. It’s not unlike being called “the asset,” in some ways. It’s more impersonal than “the Winter Soldier,” which at least was bestowed by other people. But James knows there is power in claiming one’s own name, and James at least pays homage to the man he once was. It’s a name that was given to him, a long time ago.

He doesn’t realize how lost he is in his own head until Steve gently taps his hand, which is still holding a fork. He looks up and notices the silence. He marvels at himself then, and this newfound ability to tune out the world. That’s not machine behavior, because machines do not _have_ behavior—only function, purpose. He _is_ sick. Caught between alarm at his own lack of alertness and excitement at this deeply human folly, he nearly slips back into a reverie. Luckily, Steve starts talking and thus rescues him from total degradation.

“Bruce is leaving tomorrow,” he says.

“Back to the city,” Bruce says with a sigh that James can tell is feigned. Bruce loves the city, he thinks, or at least something there.

“Please give my regards to our colleagues,” Steve says, sounding amused. James is still looking at Bruce. He’s an interesting man—James thinks he’s not unlike himself: a man made into a weapon. The difference is that with Bruce, the engineer had been himself. James knows it was not his intention, though, and that makes him feel sorry for the man. Something like that can’t be easy to live with, but James supposes it’s no harder than what James suspects he himself ought to be grappling with internally. Guilt and whatnot.

“Thank you,” James says sincerely, looking at Bruce. Bruce looks surprised at that, and smiles at him.

“No need to thank me,” he says. James wonders if they’ll cross paths again after this. Something like that would have to happen in a future James isn’t yet ready to imagine, so he pushes the thought from his mind.

James stays with Bruce and Steve for a little while, listening to them discuss work (in abstract, coded ways that James doesn’t bother trying to interpret—they don’t want him to know, and he finds he doesn’t care enough to circumvent their precautions) and occasionally losing himself in random tangents of thought.

Eventually he goes back upstairs, and sleeps again, in the bed (but on top of the sheets and covers). It’s a long, deep, empty sleep and when he wakes up again he feels certain that Bruce has left. He lies in the blackness for a while and wonders what kinds of things Bucky used to think about, and then he gets up to pee and shower.

In the mirror, he studies himself. He looks pallid but otherwise well enough. He rolls his left shoulder and watches the metal arm recalibrate. He wonders if it could ever be removed. He suspects it could, but that its extraction would kill him. He vaguely recalls warnings about breaking an embedded ampule. Then he wonders what kind of damage to the arm would be necessary for the ampule to break and its contents to kill him. Probably not anything that could be inflicted externally, though it’s also possible that HYDRA did not anticipate him ever facing up against anyone equally skilled or equipped. 

The ampule would have been mentioned in the dossier that he’d told Bruce about, so there’s no need to mention it to anyone. How funny that he can forget about it so easily, he thinks. He suspects the last time he’d thought about it was when his penultimate handler had threatened to trigger it. (He’d been resisting cryo.) But this memory predates his last memory wipe: jarred, James realizes that he’s once again reacquired old memories. And this one is not a fragment—thinking about it, he accounts for the entire sordid affair: he’d killed two agents before they’d iced him.

How effortlessly he’d conjured this memory, of which he’d noticed neither absence nor reappearance in his mind, though James supposes this is how all memories operate. The difference with his memories is that he cannot recall them consciously: he has no way to access or trace them.

After showering, James goes downstairs and finds Steve reading a book in the living room. Steve looks up and closes the book, smiling at him.

“You look better,” he says.

“I feel better,” James answers. He hovers in the doorway, and Steve gestures for him to come in and sit down.

Steve is sitting in an armchair, so James takes the couch. They look at each other for a few moments, neither sure what to say. Steve laughs, then, presumably at the awkwardness of it all.

“Let’s hope that’s the end of that,” he says, and James nods his agreement. He even dares to smile, which seems to please Steve.

“I want to talk to you about something,” James says. His words aren’t premeditated—being in front of Steve convinces him to talk, though he’s barely even thought about what’s now on his mind. Steve looks concerned, so he quickly continues. “About Bucky,” he clarifies.

“Are you—did you remember something?” Steve asks. James watches his brow furrow: more concern.

“No,” he says quickly. He amends, “Or, not really. But I think… I think I could remember. Some things, anyways.”

“And—you want to?” Steve looks at him, searching, and James nods.

“Maybe you could tell me things. Memories. It might—”

“—remind you,” Steve finishes, nodding. He leans back, rubbing at his jaw. “Yes, of course, I’ll tell you anything you want to know... anything I can think of. Is there something in particular?”

James thinks about what he wants to know. Then he remembers the biographies and realizes that it won’t work. He feels incredibly foolish then, for having forgotten about the biographies and for having brought up Bucky to Steve. All James has to do is recall the information he’s read in order to know about Bucky. He thinks about the Howling Commandos, Bucky’s sisters, the last mission… none of it stirs any memories; of course it doesn’t.

The silence must stretch too long, because Steve says, “I have a memory for you,” which brings James back to the present. He blinks, watching Steve curiously.

“You know about the Howling Commandos, right?” Steve looks at James, who nods. “We were in operation for a little under a year, and we did a lot of missions in that time. Pretty much nonstop action for us. But when we weren’t working, we were commuting—boring as shit, that part.” Steve smiles at the memory. “Anyways, we used to make up card games and make stupid bets to pass the time. One trip, you wrote a sonnet for everyone. You even did Peggy and Howard, even though they weren’t traveling with us for that one. I wish I had the poems, because they were great.”

Sonnets. That wasn’t in the biographies, James thinks. But nothing about Steve’s reminiscing gives the kind of concrete detail James might latch onto and follow to a memory. It’s too ambiguous.

“I memorized the one you did for me,” Steve admits then. He’s looking at the fireplace, not at James. “I’m not going to recite it, because I’m not good at that kind of thing, but I wrote it down a while back.” He stands up, then, and James moves to follow suit but Steve waves his hand dismissively. “Don’t get up,” he says. James sees then that he’s taking his wallet out of his back pocket. He opens it up and pulls out a folded square of paper, which he brings over to James.

“There you go,” he says. “Keep it,” he adds.

James unfolds the paper and looks at the fourteen lines. He’s not sure why, but he had expected something humorous. What he reads reveals no trace of comedy, or of anything other than an earnestness that unnerves him. It strikes him as vulnerable.

He tries to imagine himself writing these words, closing his eyes to picture it. Coming up empty, he opens his eyes and finds Steve staring at him anxiously. Yes, this is a man made for poetry, he thinks as he looks at Steve. Of course Bucky would write so earnestly about him. Steve invites openness because he himself is open. That’s a dangerous thing.

“I’m sorry,” James says, awkward.

“What?” Oh, no, don’t be. I didn’t—I wasn’t. Um.” Steve scrubs a hand over his face and then laughs (at himself? James isn’t sure). “Don’t be sorry,” he repeats firmly.

Finding that he wants to make Steve happy, James says, “I dreamed about him. Bucky.”

“Memories?” Steve asks.

“Yes. Christmas together, I think. There was snow.” James tries to recall more from the nights of fever but struggles to remember anything but fleeting details. “Not much. My sisters, your mom…”

“That’s right,” Steve says encouragingly. He’s smiling, and James can tell he’s trying to refrain from sounding excited. The excitement still bleeds into his tone enough for James to hear it, though, and it pleases him to know that he caused it. “Yeah, we did Christmas together a few times in the years before my mom passed.”

James wishes he had more to tell Steve. He thinks back to what he’d read about, briefly tempted to share some fact gleaned from a biography, but he fears he’ll cite something inaccurate and get caught in the lie. Then he feels guilty, because he realizes that what’s stopping him is not the idea of lying but rather the thought that Steve might realize.

“That’s all,” he says. He looks down at the rug, notices that there are tracks of mud on it. “Where is that from?” he asks, looking at Steve and then back at the muddy tracks.

Steve follows his gaze. “Uh,” he says. “Huh, I didn’t notice. It was probably Bruce.”

Knowing that Steve takes his shoes off, the prints unnerve James. He wonders about the possibility of intrusion here—there doesn’t seem to be particularly strong security out here in the woods, beyond the house’s seclusion. He trusts Steve’s judgment, though, and the idea that Steve hadn’t even bothered to make Bruce take off his shoes reveals how concerned he’d been. That’s nice.

James is tempted to try and clean the tracks for Steve, to make himself useful in some way, but he knows that if he tries to Steve will stop him. It’s strange how easy it is to read and understand Steve, even though James supposes he barely knows him. He guesses he’s read plenty about him, though, and he’s been living with him for two weeks now. Knowing how easy it is to read Steve makes James worry for him; in many ways, he’s an easy mark. On the other hand, he’s super-human. He’d gone toe to toe with the Winter Soldier on more than one occasion and come away unscathed (though not the last time).

James looks back up at Steve and finds him looking back at him. “Will you have work soon?” he asks. Steve shakes his head.

“Not that soon, anyways,” he says. “Bruce says things are pretty quiet for the team. PR and bureaucracy are doing the heavy lifting.” He laughs, and James nods, feigning understanding. “Why, are you sick of me?”

“No,” James says. He feels awkward when Steve’s attention is directed toward him, which is inevitably quite often. “I don’t want to go to New York City,” he adds.

“I won’t force you to come to the city,” Steve promises. “If anything, we’d have to go down to Washington.” James grimaces at that, and Steve quickly adds, “I wouldn’t bring you with me unless you wanted to come.”

“Thank you,” James says.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” Steve asks. “Catching up on popular culture might do you some good.”

“Okay,” James says.

*

After Steve goes to bed, James goes back downstairs and scrubs at the muddy tracks with a hand towel and some dish soap from the kitchen. He assumes Steve won’t mind, since he’s shared everything else (including his clothing) in the house. It feels both shameful and domestic, scrubbing out a stain in the carpet on his hands and knees. In any case, he likes the thoughtlessness of it: he can concentrate on washing out the mud. The action is familiar, even if he doesn’t remember why. He supposes Bucky had helped his mother clean the house at some point in his childhood, or perhaps had helped Steve clean his apartment when Steve was living on his own before the war. Now would be a good time to be struck by memory, he thinks.

Once he’s gotten the tracks out to the best of his ability, he goes back upstairs. He feels tired but he does not sleep, and in the morning he is awake when Steve cracks open the door to let in the light.

“Good morning,” he says, meeting Steve’s eyes through the opening in the doorway. He runs his hand over his shorn scalp and feels suddenly self-conscious.

“Morning,” Steve says, opening the door more. He looks at James, who is dressed only in a t-shirt and boxers, surveying him.

“Oh,” James says, watching Steve watch him. This is something that should have come up in the biographies, or at least in the dossier from HYDRA, he thinks. But Steve is an open book, and yet James hadn’t read this before. 

“‘Oh?’” Steve echoes, curious. “What do you mean?”

“You love him,” James says. He realizes once he’s said it that he sounds stupid. He supposes there was a reason the asset used to be told not to speak.

“Who?” Steve asks. He steps into the room and stares at James, who knows it’s perfectly obvious who he means. James indulges him, though, because if they’re both going to be stupid then fine.

“Bucky.”

“Of course I love you—him,” Steve says. Awkwardly, he says, “I love you, too.”

“Me? Why do you love me?” James knows why, but he wants to know what Steve will say. Would he admit that it’s because he still thinks of him as Bucky? Is he wrong?

“Um,” Steve says.

“You don’t love me,” James says then, confidently. Steve’s hesitation has secured his certainty of this. “You don’t know me.”

“James,” Steve says. His voice is firm, and he’s looking at James resolutely. “I’m just not sure I understand. What do you mean, exactly?”

“You care about him, like family.” This much is covered in the biographies, too.

“Yes, of course,” Steve agrees. He’s still hovering in the doorway.

“It was like a marriage?” James prompts then, because he’s sure he understands everything now. He may still be an outsider looking in, but he’s just found a piece he hadn’t even known was missing from the puzzle of Bucky Barnes.

Steve blushes, and he actually looks down—away from James’ gaze. “No, not at all,” he says with an awkward little laugh. “Or, I guess in some ways maybe. But not in the ways you’re probably thinking, no. We were just, uh, very good friends.”

“What about me?” James asks. Could he really be wrong?

“What do you mean? Are you asking if I’m in love with you?” James can hear the incredulity in Steve’s tone, subtle as it is, and internally wonders at his folly. Missed the mark again. Weapons don’t think, and apparently James has forgotten how. He doesn’t say anything, merely waits for Steve to answer.

“No,” Steve says at last. “Do you want to talk about—this? Are you…?” Steve trails off, and James has no idea where the question is meant to lead. He waits and looks at Steve uncertainly.

“Are you gay?” Steve says finally.

“Oh,” James says for the second time that morning. He realizes he doesn’t have an answer. “Was Bucky?” he asks.

“Let’s go downstairs,” Steve says, already halfway out the door. James follows him down to the kitchen.

They both sit down at the kitchen table, and Steve says, “I don’t think he was, no. But I guess I couldn’t say for sure. Do you think you are?”

“I don’t know,” James says. He wonders if he could be gay even if Bucky wasn’t. He supposes probably not, because they are in fact the same person despite all personal feeling (on James’ part) to the contrary. At least physiologically speaking.

“Well, you don’t have to figure that out now,” Steve says. “Cereal for breakfast?”

James nods, so Steve takes out the bowls and the Wheaties. They both eat in silence. 


	3. the start of nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you think I’m Bucky?” James asks then, knowing that it’s a stupid thing to ask. He half-expects Steve to say something along the lines of “I think you’re whoever you want to be,” but instead Steve answers with, “Are you?” and he’s not sure how to answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh sorry it took me so long to upload this!!

James comes back downstairs after showering and Steve asks him about the carpet. He doesn’t really ask, though. “You cleaned the carpet, didn’t you,” he says. James nods and wonders if he’s made a mistake. He feels, then, like he’s always tripping up here in Steve’s house, always a step behind instead of ahead.

“Thank you,” Steve says, voice sincere. James nods again slowly, unsure how to answer. “How did you sleep?” Steve asks then. They’re both standing in the foyer at the base of the stairs, and James feels trapped but not in the way he’s used to.

“I didn’t,” he answers awkwardly. “Can you tell me about Bucky?” he asks then, to change the subject. He steps down from the last of the stairs, levelling himself with Steve (who is, in fact, slightly taller). There are a few feet of space between them, but they’re close enough for the eye contact to feel oddly charged.

“Sure,” Steve says after a beat. “Let’s go to the living room. What do you want to know?”

They both go to the couch and there James hesitates before saying, “I want to know about his girlfriends.” He thinks about the books he’s read, and how little mention there had been of women besides Bucky’s mother and sisters. Steve had denied that anything had happened between him and Bucky, but now that James is keyed in to the way Steve looks at him, there are things that make him wonder—about Steve, in any case, though also (and more pertinently) about Bucky.

“Girlfriends,” Steve repeats. “You—Buck didn’t have many, but he dated around plenty. Popular with the ladies for sure, but he never could keep them around, or maybe he didn’t try.” He shrugs and looks at James.

“What about you?” James asks then. “Girlfriends. Peggy?”

“Peggy, yeah,” Steve says, looking down. “We didn’t really have much time together, but what we had was good.”

James feels bad for bringing it up, seeing how introspective it’s made Steve. Still, he can’t help but keep pressing the bruise: “Bucky, what did he think of her?”

“They got along like a house on fire,” Steve says with a smile. He looks up at James. “You were starting to remember me at the Triskelion, I could tell. But you didn’t want to remember. What were you afraid of?”

The question is so incisive and unexpected that James nearly winces. “Nothing good ever came from remembering things,” he answers, measured. “I would be punished when it happened, and I think the muscle memory of punishment stuck around in my brain better than the memories themselves.” Although this hadn’t occurred to him before, as he says it he knows that he’s right. There’s a reason his mind seems so resistant to recovering the past. His brain and the rest of his body are in conversation, conspiring against the survival of Bucky Barnes. He presses his face into his hands at the realization.

“I’m in my own way,” he mutters, feeling stupid. His chest feels tight and hot, and he realizes there are tears in his eyes. That’s a very human reaction, at least.

Steve is beside him—closer to him, that is—immediately, pressing his hand against James’ shoulder. “What’s wrong? What do you mean?” he asks. The worry in his voice only makes James feel worse, though he presses the heels of his palms against his eyes in an attempt to staunch his tears. How far he’s come from being a weapon, how embarrassingly soft he’s gotten. This thought only further humiliates him, but he forces himself to look at Steve.

“It’s my own fault, I think,” he says. “My brain won’t let me remember, but I’m sure I still have it all. I don’t know if I’m making sense.”

“Your memories? That’s not your fault, though,” Steve says. “I’m pretty sure everyone’s brain works like that. Don’t beat yourself up, none of it’s your fault.” He wraps an arm around James’ shoulder and James leans into it unthinkingly.

“I feel so fucking stupid all the time,” he says, closing his eyes. “Bucky wasn’t like this.” He opens his eyes then, looking up to keep tears from falling.

“Two things,” Steve says firmly. He’s staring intently at James, who refuses to return his gaze. “First, you’re not stupid so you shouldn’t feel that way. Second, don’t compare yourself to Bucky. You yourself said that you’re not him, but even if you _are_ him, that doesn’t mean you have to be the same version of him that existed seventy years ago.”

Steve’s pep talk does make James feel a little better, more than anything because of the sincerity with which it’s delivered.

“Do you think I’m Bucky?” James asks then, knowing that it’s a stupid thing to ask. He half-expects Steve to say something along the lines of “I think you’re whoever you want to be,” but instead Steve answers with, “Are you?” and he’s not sure how to answer.

“I don’t know,” he says. Steve’s arm is still around him, so he leans his head against Steve’s shoulder to see what it’s like. He knows then that he’s playing a game whose rules are unfamiliar. Steve doesn’t say anything, but James feels the way he tenses slightly. James takes the cue, shrugging Steve off and standing up. “You can call me Bucky, if you want,” he says. “As long as you know I’m not really…” James doesn’t know how to finish the sentence, so he trails off and shrugs vaguely. Steve is still on the couch, looking at him with his searching eyes and earnest face, so he looks away. He suspects the offer is pointless, but nonetheless… it’s the way Steve says “Bucky.” James doesn’t know why he misses it.

After Steve murmurs a soft “okay,” James goes back to his room. He trusts that Steve won’t follow him—Steve tends to give him space. He feels suddenly exhausted, and weighed down by everything he now must process about himself, Bucky, and Steve. 

*

He dozes in the corner of the room for an hour or so, crouched with his head leaning slightly against the wall. It’s not comfortable, but there is a certain sense of security that comes with the familiar—and this precarious way of sleeping is certainly familiar to him. When he wakes up, he recalls the day that Steve had found him. They haven’t been at the house for very long, although time passes differently here than it had for the renegade asset. Still, so much has changed already for James. He hasn’t donned the Winter Soldier’s mask since that day, though thinking about it draws him to his duffle bag, where he quickly finds it amidst the guns and papers. He knows what he’d looked like wearing it before, with the paint and the uniform (and the arsenal he’d carried on his person), but he looks so different now. Curiosity gets the better of him, and he heads to the bathroom, mask in hand.

There, he puts it on and looks at himself in the mirror. Without the accompanying goggles, he looks like a muzzled dog. And paired with his short hair… he’s an amalgamation, a battered synthesis of the asset and Bucky Barnes. He supposes that’s what he is. He unlatches the mask and returns to his room, tossing it on the bed.

These questions, questions of memory and identity, past and future, are disrupting the life that he’s coming to enjoy here with Steve. He doesn’t want to live here as James, because it underscores his status as a stranger in Steve’s life and his house, but he fears that going by Bucky will set expectations with Steve that he’ll only ever fail to meet. He wonders if Steve will call him “Bucky” intentionally now, since he’s been given the go-ahead. The thought makes his pulse quicken, though he’s not sure why.

He decides to venture back downstairs, itching to find out what Steve will now call him and, he realizes, eager for the company. On the ground floor, though, Steve is nowhere to be found. Had he left without saying anything? The thought makes him tense, but it would be out of character for Steve (he thinks). He opens the door to the basement—he’s never ventured there before, neither invited nor particularly interested—and finds that the light is on.

“Steve?” he calls uncertainly, peering down the stairway. There’s plenty of light down there but the stairs face a wall, which means Steve is out of his view. He descends the stairs slowly, and finds Steve jogging on a machine to his left. Steve is facing opposite the stairwell and appears not to have heard him, so he repeats, “Steve.”

This time it works, and Steve turns his head. At the same time, James (will that remain his name?) steps into his periphery. Steve presses a button on the machine and stops jogging, and then looks back at him and smiles.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hello,” James answers.

“What’s up?” Steve asks. James wonders how long he’s been running: he smells good, not like sweat but instead fresh and clean.

“I—missed you,” James says. It’s not the most accurate answer, he thinks after he’s said it, but it’s economical and he thinks it captures the gist of his intention. Isn’t it true that he’d come searching for Steve because he’d wanted to be near him? Is that not it means to miss someone?

Steve sort of looks at him for a moment, long enough for James to register that his answer was perhaps not a good one, but then smiles and pats him on the shoulder playfully.

“You’re starved for human interaction here,” Steve says, “trapped alone with me. I should have asked Bruce to stay longer.”

“You’re enough,” James answers, surprising himself with his earnestness. What he says is true, though: even the long periods of silence and solitude in Steve’s house are better than anything James has experienced as far as he can remember, even if that’s more a testament to how much he’s suffered than how fun it is at Steve’s place. After all, he wouldn’t have even had this if Steve hadn’t gone looking for him—and found him. Why had he ever run from this?

Steve is looking at him again, the way he looks when he thinks about Bucky—a look both intimate and distant, and, James thinks, deeply melancholy. It seems he can never find the right words; he looks away, embarrassed. He can feel Steve still looking at him, though.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Steve says. “Unless you want to work out?”

James just shakes his head and turns back toward the stairway. Steve follows him up into the kitchen.

Once they’re upstairs, Steve sits at the kitchen table and gestures for James to do likewise. He obeys and then looks at Steve curiously.

“What’s going on?” Steve asks gently. He’s leaning slightly on the table, has both elbows on it, and his left hand is outstretched palm up as though in invitation for James to take it with his own right hand. He doesn’t, but he also doesn’t take his eyes away from the offered hand.

“What do you mean?” he asks. He suspects he knows what Steve means, though.

“You just seem kind of shaken up about things today. What happened?”

James closes his eyes for a moment, part of a futile attempt to collect his thoughts before speaking. How can he even comb out his thoughts enough to voice them properly? Everything in his mind is a tangled and impenetrable rhizome, the original root obscured.

“It’s just—difficult. Not knowing who I am,” he says, voice measured. “And today I thought, maybe, I’d figured something out. But I was wrong. And I can’t remember anything, really, so all I have is deduction, which I’m apparently not very good at—anymore.” His explanation is stilted, but he trusts Steve will understand, at least as much as anyone can.

He looks at Steve to gauge his reaction, and finds Steve looking back at him, brow creased. “Do you want to…see somebody?” Steve asks tentatively. “A therapist, I mean. I’m sure we could find somebody appropriate.”

James knows enough about therapy to be skeptical of it, but if Steve thinks it’s a good idea… “I don’t know,” he answers honestly. He traces his lower lip with his thumb as he considers it. “If you think it would help...”

“I do,” Steve says, nodding. “I’ll call Bruce, I’m sure he’ll have recommendations.” He extends his arm then, reaching across the table. James has kept his hands in his lap under the table, so Steve settles for his bicep, patting it somewhat awkwardly. James recognizes the gesture for the gentle kindness that it’s meant to be, and smiles uncertainly at Steve.

“Thank you, Steve,” he says.

“There’s something else, too,” Steve says, standing up. “It’s—well, give me a sec.” He disappears into the hall and returns a few moments later with a journal and a pen in hand. He sets both of them on the table in front of James. “These are for you. I thought maybe it could help, you know, writing out your thoughts, feelings, memories… Really you can write whatever you want. Writing helped me a lot, in the beginning.”

James nods, picking up the journal. He opens it and finds a dedication page, requesting the addition of the owner’s name and address. “Thank you,” he says again, looking up at Steve. He studies the empty lines. It’s been so long since he’s written anything, yet once the pen is in his hand he understands that he hasn’t forgotten, that the muscle memory is still there. He writes _James Buchanan Barnes_ and then looks at it, studying the handwriting. He wonders if his writing matches Bucky’s.

He looks up to see that Steve is watching him, his expression soft. “Can I write here?” James asks, more to interrupt the silence than because he thinks Steve would be opposed.

“Of course, go ahead,” Steve nods and waves his hand in a way ostensibly meant to encourage James, then takes a step back. “I’m going to go finish my workout, just holler if you need me. Or come get me.” He smiles at James briefly and then leaves him alone in the kitchen.

Abandoned with his thoughts, James savors the emptiness of the page for a moment. There’s plenty to write about, he knows, and also plenty weighing on his mind. On the other hand, what bothers him has more to do with what he _doesn’t_ feel than what he does—with perhaps a few exceptions.

Eventually, he writes a short list: _thoughts about Steve, thoughts about Winter Soldier, thoughts about Bucky_. These three categories, he believes, are the sum total of his mental preoccupations. 

There isn’t much to write as far as the first category goes. Certainly he has thoughts about Steve, and he suspects Steve has a lot of thoughts about him as well, but these thoughts are static in his head compared to the ongoing identity crisis that the other categories comprise.

The Winter Soldier, James knows, is something wretched. Weapon and murderer, nothing but a competent killer. When he thinks of the Winter Soldier, though, he feels only a remote guilt. More than guilt he feels anger and frustration. He spent cumulative decades in cryo as the Winter Soldier, a half-dead thing, and his handlers were objectively immoral people. They are the ones who killed Bucky. Steve and the biographies (and then Steve again) have fostered an immense sympathy for Bucky in James, even as they force him to grapple with his relationship to the man he used to be.

He _does_ feel guilty, though, for the things he did as an asset for HYDRA. He doesn’t remember his victims, but he knows the statistics. He knows these were people, _good_ people, many with families and all with lives they hadn’t yet finished living when he’d terminated them.

And Bucky. Poor Bucky. Another half-dead thing, perhaps. James _is_ Bucky, in some sense, but he’s done so many things that Bucky would not—had not—done. Bucky led a life that James can’t even remember. James finds himself wishing he were Bucky, though—that he could remember, that he could be certain he knows what it feels like to be that other version of himself, the good man, the hero.

He writes down some of these thoughts and not others, and soon grows tired of the introspection. It seems all there is for him to do here in Steve’s house is think about things. He suspects he’s done more thinking here than he’d done in the past six decades combined.

He goes to his room and takes out the sonnet about Steve. Sitting on the bed with the pen and the journal, he copies the poem painstakingly and tries to imagine the words arising organically within him. It’s an exercise in futility, but when he looks at the poem written by his own hand, he recognizes something about the words. He understands what Bucky must have felt when he wrote it; he fears he’s beginning to feel the same thing now.

*

Bruce sends Steve a few names, and then Steve looks them up on his laptop with James beside him at the kitchen table. They skim several websites: LinkedIn, healthgrades.com, personal pages, and so on. James takes notes, careful and concise, in his journal; he takes his cues from Steve, who occasionally comments on their findings.

The fact that their information is publicly available unnerves James slightly, and eventually he voices his concern to Steve, who admits his agreement. “Someone more under the radar would be good,” he says. After that, Steve calls Maria Hill; she recommends they take advantage of the former SHIELD infrastructure that’s survived the transition to Stark Enterprises.

“So we have to go to the city?” James asks once Steve hangs up.

“Not if you don’t want to,” Steve says firmly. He sighs. “But part of the discretion comes from the fact that they only work in-house.” 

“Make an appointment,” James says after a moment.

“You sure?” Steve looks at him, concern softening his serious expression. James nods.

Steve makes an appointment for the following Tuesday, five days away. Once the plans are made, he hangs up the phone (a corded house phone, a relic) and heads to the refrigerator.

“Need to go grocery shopping,” he says aloud, hidden by the refrigerator door.

“I’ll come,” James says. Steve closes the door and nods his way.

“Great. You can make the grocery list, then.” He grins, and James smiles back uncertainly. Is he serious? James recognizes this for what it is: domestic. He turns the page of his journal to start the list and Steve comes back to the table, leaning over his shoulder.

“What’s your favorite food?” he prompts, and James shrugs.

“I don’t know,” he says. “What was Bucky’s?”

“You tell me,” Steve says. “Something different every day,” he adds by way of explanation.

James writes down the basics: eggs, milk, bread, orange juice, pasta. He likes the simple meals Steve makes, isn’t sure what else there is to want. Steve sees him struggling and disappears momentarily, reappearing with a cookbook which he sets down on the table.

“Go through it,” he says. “Write down the ingredients for whatever recipes you want to try.” The cover reads: _The Fanny Farmer Cookbook_. James turns his head to look at Steve, questioning. Steve shrugs back at him, smiling. “My mom had this cookbook. Earlier edition. It’s good stuff! I promise.”

Obediently, James skims the contents of the cookbook and writes down the names of a few recipes, as well as their ingredients. The book is a tome, and the freedom of choice is staggering, so he stops after reading only a handful of pages.

When he’s done he finds Steve in the living room, and gives him the journal to assess the grocery list. Steve nods in approval. “Perfect,” he says. “Thanks, Buck.” James waits for him to correct himself, half-dreading it, but he doesn’t and so James smiles a little back at him.

“You’re welcome,” he says. How funny it is to go from an assassin to a man who writes grocery lists for Captain America. James finds that he likes this change—loves it, even. Life with Steve is humanizing.

They drive to the grocery store, a quiet ride apart from the low hum of a radio talk show. It’s a weekday, and daytime, so the store is populated mostly by retirees.

“Old folks’ hour,” Steve whispers, grinning. “It’s our time.” James smiles awkwardly at the joke. There are so many things about Steve that aren’t captured in photos or museum catalogues, he thinks.

After they shop the perimeter, Steve insists on wandering the aisles. “I don’t really buy the junk on the aisle shelves, but I think it’s fun to look,” he explains. James acquiesces because this is his first time in a grocery store that he can recall, and he necessarily takes his cues from Steve.

Steve urges James to pick a few things out, so he chooses foods with colorful packaging and stupid-sounding names: Oreos, Funyuns, Cheetos. “These look kind of disgusting,” he says to Steve as he adds a bag of Doritos to the basket.

“Oh, they are,” Steve answers with authority. He nudges James playfully. “Just wait ‘til you try them. Maybe you’ll find your favorite food here.” He gestures to the shelves of chips.

“I hope not,” James mutters as he looks at the flavors advertised on the chip bags. Steve laughs, which thrills him.

The trip puts them both in a good mood, light and unguarded in a way that James thinks is new for them. They listen to music on the way home, and Steve even sings along to a couple of songs, glancing at James with a grin as he jokingly croons to the music. Watching Steve fills James with an unnamable emotion, something hot and bittersweet that surges in him like a high tide. He’s having fun, enjoying himself, but at the same time he can’t shake the feeling that he’s way out of his depth, that he’ll never find his footing here with Steve. He does his best to ignore the feeling, nodding along to the music and Steve’s singing because he can see how it delights Steve when he does it.


	4. dinner & diatribes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He explains as best as he can that he feels some degree of remorse but that he also feels detached from the assassinations because he does not remember carrying them out. The Winter Soldier, the many iterations of him (all with varying degrees of memory, and different ones at that) are not the present James, he feels. Their experiences are distant from his own, which are limited to the Triskelion, months of living as a renegade, and now life with Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry this took me so long :/ but almost done now!!!

The psychologist is nice. A woman past middle age, with a Polish surname and a polite demeanor, her questions are probing yet professional. James wonders who else she’s worked with, what kinds of things she’s discussed and what people she’s psychoanalyzed on SHIELD’s behalf.

The first time, the flow of the conversation stutters often. They don’t talk about Steve, or World War II, or any of the other things related to Bucky’s life. Instead, the psychologist asks him about cryostasis, about Alexander Pierce, about his daily life in Steve’s house and what he thinks about the parts of his past he remembers.

James isn’t sure exactly what to bring up, but he does his best to be honest because Steve had said that’s what will help him. About Pierce and cryostasis, he discusses the emotional associations—unpleasantness and fear—though he also admits that he doesn’t have clear memories tied to either. He confesses that he spends long stretches of time doing nothing at Steve’s house, even though he knows Steve is always around and would likely do whatever he could to keep James entertained, if James wanted. He admits that he likes the lack of activity, the stagnancy of life with Steve (at least for now). He realizes that it reminds him of cryostasis without the negative associations, and voices the observation.

Beyond asking the occasional question, the psychologist is quiet. Her tone is cordial, distant but not unkind. Eventually she asks him about the victims of the Winter Soldier, whether he thinks about them at all and if so, what he thinks about. Briefly, he wonders if this woman resents him for the asset’s deeds. He explains as best as he can that he feels some degree of remorse but that he also feels detached from the assassinations because he does not remember carrying them out. The Winter Soldier, the many iterations of him (all with varying degrees of memory, and different ones at that) are not the present James, he feels. Their experiences are distant from his own, which are limited to the Triskelion, months of living as a renegade, and now life with Steve.

He tells her about the time he’d spent researching Bucky for his own benefit, about how he’d hoped to jog his memory with the books and the museum exhibits. He also describes, as best he can, the dreams he’s had that feature Bucky’s life and family.

The therapist encourages him to keep writing in the journal from Steve, and to ask Steve more about Bucky if he’s interested (which he supposes he is). She also tells him that he and Bucky need not be considered two different people, because all people evolve over time into versions of themselves that may seem irreconcilable, even considered within the continuum of time. James doubts this but agrees to try and adapt his thinking, just to see how (if, really) it changes his outlook.

When their hour ends, James finds Steve in the waiting room, reading a book. He looks up when James enters the room, smiling.

“How was it?” he asks, standing. James shrugs.

“I was honest,” he says. He guesses, correctly, that hearing this will make Steve happy. His smile widens at the admission, and he wraps his arm around James’ shoulder as they head toward the elevator.

“Do you think once a week will be enough? Or would more often be better?” Steve asks as they wait for the elevator.

“Once a week is fine,” James says mildly. He can’t imagine having more than an hour’s worth of material to discuss with the therapist each week—at least not while he’s an amnesiac and a freeloader. Life is simple right now, straight forward: his body has adapted to life post-cryostasis, and now he’s just waiting for his mind to catch up. If that’s even possible.

They have to do some paperwork on the ground floor, take James’ biometrics and scan his arm and some other “bureaucratic BS,” as Steve calls it, and then they’re on their way out of the city. It’s weird seeing Steve drive in New York: he’s much more tense than when they’re upstate, because of the ceaseless traffic and the relentless flow of jaywalking pedestrians. James takes pleasure in observing this glimpse of Steve, because he knows it’s a version of him that hadn’t existed when Bucky knew him. It’s not that he wants to have one over on that forgotten self, so much as that it’s thrilling to remember life hadn’t stop with him. James can experience new things about himself and about Steve in the present that have no bearing on Bucky, or vice versa.

“So what do you think of her?” Steve prompts once they’re over the bridge and the traffic has eased considerably.

“I like her,” James answers. He’s watching the guardrail stream by through the passenger window.

“That’s good. Next week…,” he glances at James, who senses his gaze and turns, attentive. “Next week, I was thinking we could get lunch with a friend of mine. Maria Hill, I don’t think you’ve met her.”

James recognizes the name and realizes that she was in the dossier on Steve he’d read before his final mission. She must have been at the Triskelion that day.

“Sure,” he says, nodding slightly. “Why?”

“I just feel like it would be good for you to talk to people other than me,” Steve says, smiling softly. “It’s not right for me to keep you to myself, locked away like a prisoner.”

“I’m not a prisoner,” James says. He’s still looking at Steve. “Steve,” he adds, using the name as punctuation to drive the point home.

“I know, I mean—well, good,” Steve says, seemingly at a loss for words. He’s still sort of smiling, though. “But what do you think? I feel like socializing a bit would do you good.”

“Sure,” James says again, although he’s uncertain. Why would he need other people? Eventually, he supposes, it’s a logical progression for the sake of real integration into society. On the other hand, Steve is (ostensibly) integrated and he’s also been living in relative isolation these past few weeks. They’ve been living like that together, and James hasn’t minded it. But perhaps Steve is tired of James, or at least the monotony of his presence. He must miss the excitement of other people, different people, in his vicinity (not to mention the dynamism of his line of work). Hadn’t he said at one point that Bruce should have stayed longer?

“Great,” Steve says, nodding. “I’ll let her know.”

James will do whatever Steve wants him to do, and he thinks they both know this. He looks out the window again.

*

They’ve begun sampling the assorted junk foods from their grocery store trip, and James finds most of them disgusting upon first taste but the ones he dares to keep eating become more palatable the more he eats. He’s tentatively declared the Doritos a winner, and Steve agrees, but the other chips sit in the cabinet, to be revisited later.

Steve also likes the Oreos—he’s always had a sweet tooth, James recalls from somewhere. “You’ve always liked sweets, right?” he says as he remembers, and Steve grins at him brilliantly.

“Absolutely,” he says. “How’d you know?”

James feels his face heat up and he looks down at the table, but he smiles. “What was your favorite back then?” he asks.

“Funnel cake,” Steve answers easily.

“Funnel cake,” James echoes. “Like they sell at the fair?”

“Yes, exactly.” Steve’s really grinning now. “Do you remember we used to go to the fair? Coney Island? The parks there were called Steeplechase and Luna. That was the best part of the summer.”

James doesn’t remember the parks, but he remembers the taste of funnel cake—at least, he thinks he does. And what Steve is describing feels familiar somehow, though it hadn’t been mentioned in the books he’d read. From this he deduces that his family hadn’t known.

“It was a secret, wasn’t it,” he says, looking at Steve. Steve raises his eyebrows.

“What do you mean?” he asks. Before James has to explain though, he says, “Oh, I see. Yeah, we didn’t tell your mom because you said she’d worry about me.” He laughs at that.

“The Cyclone,” James says, still watching Steve. There had been a ride… He’d made Steve go with him.

“Yeah,” Steve nods. “Hated that one—we only rode it once.”

“Sorry I made you do it,” James says, but Steve shakes his head.

“Don’t be sorry, it was worth it. What do you remember?”

James thinks, but the more he tries to grasp the memory the further it seems to slip away from him, out of reach. “That’s it,” he says, defeated.

“That’s not nothing,” Steve says, cuffing James on the shoulder lightly.

“It’s not much, though,” James answers. But Steve’s right, it’s a good sign. Isolated, fragmented, and incoherent, but nonetheless real: his memories are coming back, or at least they seem to be. 

After the taste testing, they both go to the library—James has hardly spent any time there, but he accompanies Steve at his suggestion. There, James writes in his journal (largely meaningless things, empty ponderings because he’s afraid to write about what’s actually taking shape in his mind) and Steve reads. James occasionally steals glances at Steve, admiring the way the lamp colors him warmly. He likes watching Steve, but he knows that this only poses more questions for himself, and about Bucky, so he tries to abate the habit.

He wonders if Steve has a lover nowadays, though he supposes he would know by now if that were the case. On the other hand, they’ll be having lunch with Agent Hill soon. Could that be it? Steve’s never otherwise mentioned her, though James realizes their conversations revolve mostly around the past, popular culture, and the immediate future. The questions James has had for Steve all relate to his life before the war, but he’s been living in the twenty-first century for years now. 

James is struck by guilt, then, for what he doesn’t know about Steve. Steve knows—or seems to know—everything there is to know about James, not to mention Bucky. The only dark area for Steve would be the Winter Soldier, but he’s also read the HYDRA file. And what is there to know about the Winter Soldier anyways, besides his confirmed kills and cryo dates?

He resolves to ask more about Steve, and makes a note in his journal to do so, but he knows as he reads his own cramped handwriting that making himself ask won’t be easy. Talking to Steve is difficult, though not because of Steve. He’s easy to talk to, easygoing and kind and straightforward in his answers, but James doesn’t know what—or how—to ask him. He hates the idea of misstepping, of asking a question that would upset Steve (as he’s already done a few times); he’s wary of the pained expression, the hesitation in Steve’s voice as he tries to answer, does his best to appease James.

Steve catches his eye and smiles at him, and James realizes he’s been staring. James looks away, embarrassed, and back to his own note. He itches to cross it out, but he knows better. He wants to truly and properly _know_ Steve, know him the way Bucky had, and not simply wait and hope for the memories to return and the friendship to be restored to whatever former glory Steve must still be running on (why else would he be doing so much for him?).

He resolves to make more of an effort to know Steve, to overcome his dependence on Steve’s memory of their one-time closeness. If their friendship is entirely predicated on the past, it will inevitably fall away sooner or later, and James hates the very thought of that.

*

Therapy the following week is more fruitful, and James is also pleased to note some progress in his and Steve’s burgeoning friendship. They’ve taken to watching movies together each night and discussing them (Steve tends to offer more opinions than James), and James likes to ask Steve about his work with the Avengers. If Steve is suspicious about the questions, he doesn’t let on, and this small blessing relieves James. Even though Steve has never so much as tacitly questioned James’ loyalty, he can never quite shake the feeling that he’s skating on thin ice.

In the build up to lunch with Agent Hill, Steve has filled James in a bit on the (now defunct) SHIELD bureaucracy. It’s clear that Steve has a great deal of admiration for Agent Hill, who is as cool and competent in the field as in the office. James is fascinated by Steve’s interest in her, and wonders if Steve is in love with her. The thought disappoints him, and the disappointment does not go unnoticed by him, but he shelves the observation for later.

In therapy, he explains that he feels guilty for not putting in much of an effort to develop a friendship with Steve. “I just rely on the sense of kinship he already has,” he explains, “but it feels like cheating.”

“You mentioned last week that Steve knows you’re not the man he remembers, right?” the therapist—Dr. Rupinski—prompts. James nods.

“Then I’m sure he understands. I don’t think Steve would think of it as ‘cheating.’ He wants to be your friend. Perhaps that desire is informed by the relationship he had with Bucky, yes, but he continues to be your friend even though he recognizes you are not—by your own admission—him.”

She’s right, or what she says makes sense in any case, but James still feels bad. “I do want to be his friend,” he tells her. “I feel like I’m more a burden than a friend.”

“Has Steve made you feel that way?”

“No! Not at all.” James is appalled by the thought—no, he can’t imagine it. Steve is far too good to him, too good a person in general.

“Part of friendship is helping one another. He wants to help you. If you feel you are friends, it’s good to let him.” Dr. Rupinski looks at him, her gaze soft. “You can also try to help him. Pay attention to what he does for you and see how you can return the favor,” she advises.

Though their conversation turns towards other, bleaker subject matter after that, James dwells on her recommendation for the rest of the session. He only half pays attention to the questions about HYDRA and answers them with neither interest nor emotion. The only time this changes is when she asks him about the ampule embedded in his mechanical arm.

“I didn’t know you knew about that,” he says, doing his best to keep accusation out of his tone.

“I was given your dossier,” she explains simply. “I’m sorry for the intrusion, but we thought it best for your treatment if I had as much background information as possible.”

He understands this logic, and he also knows that Steve and Bruce must have looked at the file as well, when he was sick, but he’s still jarred. How much of his past is common knowledge to strangers?

“I don’t know anything about it, really,” he says, flexing his metal fingers as he thinks. “I know it’s dangerous.”

“Would you be willing to have the arm scanned, then? In the interest of your health and safety?”

James hesitates, suddenly suspicious, and Dr. Rupinski continues, “Certain individuals are concerned for your wellbeing. It’s entirely your decision, and so would be anything that came after the initial scan.”

 _Certain individuals_ could be anyone, James thinks. It could just as easily be people interested in exploiting the arm as it could be Steve or Bruce.

“I’ll think about it,” he says. “Do I report my decision to you?”

“You may,” she says kindly, “but you can also talk to Steve about it. He’s the point man on this issue—discounting yourself, of course.”

So it _is_ Steve who’s concerned. Another instance of Steve’s friendship, hopefully, though the idea of people testing the arm worries James. The session ends with that, and James leaves the office reeling with thoughts about Steve, friendship, and the arm.

*

Once they’re through security, James and Steve loiter in the ground floor lobby, waiting for Agent Hill. James hasn’t yet brought up what he and Dr. Rupinski discussed, though he senses from Steve’s placating demeanor that he has an idea. He feels like he’s been tricked somehow, but he doesn’t resent Steve for it. He feels like he should, though, and finds himself amused at the idea of being cross with Steve for having his best interest at heart. But he also notes that he’s too comfortable being dependent on Steve, and this dependence becomes more obvious to him each day.

“Maria!”

James follows Steve’s gaze and lands on Agent Hill, who’s approaching them at a brisk pace. She’s beautiful, dressed in business clothing (James isn’t sure exactly why, but this surprises him. He can tell she’s a competent field agent from the set of her shoulders; even as she smiles at Steve she seems ready for sudden danger. James wonders if she’s on edge because of him, or because of the nature of her job.

“It’s good to see you,” she says, embracing Steve. “And it’s good to meet you,” she says to James, extending a hand. “Maria Hill.” James shakes her hand. 

As they head to the exit, she hands something to James. “This is for you,” she says in a low voice. “We recovered some things that might be of interest—we can discuss it at lunch.” 

Steve seems oblivious to the interaction, but James knows better than to think anything gets past him. Once she’s drifted toward Steve and struck up a proper conversation with him, James looks at the object. It’s a pen drive, or something like it. Files from HYDRA, he’s guessing. They might think he can help decode them—but he knows better. He puts the drive in his pocket.

The restaurant Agent Hill has chosen is only a few blocks from Stark Tower, and James tries not to be too wary of the pedestrians walking alongside and past them. It feels like it’s been so long since he’s navigated a city; even though there’s comfort and safety in crowds, he’s grown accustomed to the isolated calm of Steve’s country home.

Steve must recognize James’ tension, because he wraps an arm around his shoulders, leaning into him affectionately. “Take it easy,” he says, voice teasing but not unkind.

Maria and Steve spend most of the short walk discussing work, exchanging bureaucratic office jargon that James tunes out. For a moment he feels out of place and perhaps redundant beside them, a stranger haunting two colleagues and friends. The feeling doesn’t linger, though, because Steve doesn’t take his arm back from around James until they reach the restaurant, and Agent Hill smiles at him when she holds the door for him and Steve to enter.

They’re led to a round table, and James takes the seat with a view of both the entry and the kitchen doorway. Maria watches him do so, and smiles. “I see what you’re doing,” she says without malice. She sits to his left, her back to the entry.

It’s an Italian restaurant, and the smell from the kitchen is familiar and appealing. “I love Italian food,” he says, hoping it’s true. Steve bumps James’ knee under the table with his own and grins at him.

“Everybody loves Italian food,” he says.

Once they place their order, Maria pulls an envelope out of her handbag. “I gave Bucky the flash drive already,” she says to Steve, “because I didn’t want to lose it in my bag. It’s like the Mary Poppins carpet bag, I swear.” James doesn’t know what that means, and doesn’t ask. “The papers in here should have what you need to decode most of what’s on there, but some things we couldn’t parse. Maybe you’ll have more luck.”

“Where did this come from?” James asks, glancing at Steve and then Maria.

“Most of SHIELD’s data was stored on a private network, and after the takedown we found that HYDRA was using the same network but encrypting their stuff differently,” Maria explains. “I’m giving this to you guys because you’re outside; to be honest, I don’t want this to stay an inside cleanup job. Besides,” she looks at James, “I thought you might like to get involved a little.”

“You don’t have to, of course,” Steve adds. “It would be great to have your help, but this stuff is really for me—it’s my homework, not yours.”

“This is a business meeting,” James says. Steve looks sheepish, and Maria nods.

“Not _all_ business, though,” she says. “I wanted to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“From who?” he asks, at the same time as Steve. Steve sounds incredulous.

“From Sam,” Maria answers, amused. “If you gave him a call once in a while, maybe he wouldn’t be so hung up on you, Steve,” she adds. Steve has the decency to look chagrined, and James feels guilty. Steve had mentioned Sam, briefly, when he’d first found James.

“It’s my fault,” he says to Maria. “I’ve been—hoarding Steve.”

“Bullshit,” Maria says, more to Steve than James. “Steve’s a grown man.”

“You’re right,” Steve says. “I’ll talk to him soon. I’ll call him.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Maria tells him. Her voice is stern, but her face is soft. James likes her. “Anyways, don’t worry about confidentiality with the stuff I gave you. If it gets out, it’s not a problem—otherwise I wouldn’t be talking to you guys about it here. But I thought you guys deserved to look through everything first.”

James wonders if this is because of Steve’s history with HYDRA or his (Bucky’s). “You’ve gone through these files?” he asks Maria.

She shakes her head. “I ran them through a couple of Stark Enterprises decryption programs, but I haven’t actually read most of what’s in there. A lot of it’s blueprints, copies of old documentation, practically antiques.” 

“Ah,” Steve says. “Giving the junk to the geezers, I see.”

“I’m not old,” James says. “Speak for yourself.” He kicks Steve slightly under the table. He’s not sure why he does it, but it feels right, and Steve laughs.

The rest of lunch passes with all three of them in this playful spirit, and when they part ways with Maria James finds himself hoping they do this again. “I like her,” he tells Steve.

“She’s cool, right?” Steve smiles. There have been a lot of smiles over the course of lunch. Smiling back at Steve (somewhat idiotically, he imagines), James recalls the conversation with Dr. Rupinski that had ended their session.

“You want me to get rid of the arm?” he asks then, quietly. They’re in the parking garage, nearly at Steve’s car.

“What?” Steve looks at him. His bafflement seems genuine.

“The scan,” James says as they reach the car. “So they can figure out how to dissemble it.” He wrenches open the door, suddenly frustrated, and nearly rips it off. Grimacing at his own strength, he climbs into the passenger seat.

Steve follows suit on the driver’s side, but he doesn’t start the car. Instead, he turns to James. “Bucky,” Steve says gently. He and Maria have now both called him that today, though he’s used to Steve saying it again by now. James looks at Steve reluctantly, suddenly embarrassed by his own hurt. “James,” Steve tries again, haltingly. “That’s not why. It’s just—your dossier, the thing embedded in there…” he trails off. “It’s dangerous. It could kill you. But nobody’s going to do anything to you without your permission, not even a scan. I swear.”

James sighs, and nods. “Okay,” he says. “But why didn’t you talk to me about it first?”

“I was going to,” Steve says. “I wanted to. But I didn’t want to—I don’t know.” He hesitates, searching for the right words. James watches him. “I didn’t want you to feel like I was pressuring you, or like I only see you for what HYDRA has done to you, or anything like that. And I didn’t think I was the best person to talk to you about it.”

“Okay,” James says again, resigned. “I believe you. I’m sorry. It surprised me.” He pauses, then adds, "I would let them take it."

Steve ignores this last remark. “Were you thinking about this all through lunch?” he asks, starting the car.

“No,” James says quickly. “Not at all. It was pretty much out of my mind when Maria showed up, but… well, the HYDRA files from her, plus that, I don’t know.”

“You think SHIELD—what’s left of SHIELD, anyways—wants to use you?” Steve sounds—angry, almost. James can see that his brow is furrowed.

“Maybe,” James answers. “I don’t know what you want with me.”

“I don’t want anything,” Steve says, voice hard. It’s almost intimidating, the tone he’s using. He softens then, relaxing slightly in his place. James hadn’t realized how rigidly Steve had been gripping the steering wheel. He’s forcing himself to calm down. “I’m sorry,” Steve says softly then. “I did the exact opposite of what I was trying to do. I didn’t want you to feel ambushed by all this _shit_ , but I ended up ambushing you completely here. The scan is because I don’t want you to get hurt by them anymore—I can’t stand the thought—and the files, well, I thought it might be fun to go through them. You used to be—I mean, Bucky was really savvy with decoding intercepted messages and interpreting strategies.” He glances at James via the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry, really. You never have to do anything you don’t want to, I swear on my life.”

“Thank you,” James says. He believes Steve, and Steve’s words are a relief to him, though he doesn’t think he’d ever really doubted his intentions. It’s everyone else’s intentions he feels he can never truly know, the people around him who seem friendly and eager to help him: Bruce Banner, Dr. Rupinski, Maria Hill… Is it out of loyalty to Steve that they do this? Is it part of the job? Do they truly, altruistically want to help?

“There are a lot of people in your corner,” Steve says gently. “You’ll always have me, but don’t worry if you think I’m all you’ve got. I promise I’m not.”

James is skeptical of that, but he smiles. “Thank you,” he repeats. “Thanks for everything, Steve.” Steve offers his right hand and James takes it, squeezing it with his own. They keep their hands like that for most of the ride home.


	5. raising from the grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam shakes his head. “There’s a thing embedded in the arm,” he says. James and Steve both nod. “Well, apparently it’s got an expiration date. And you don’t want it to expire into your bloodstream.”

Sam drops by, unexpectedly, a week after the lunch with Maria. He knocks on the front door, midafternoon, and both James and Steve look up at the sound.

Steve stands, setting his book on the recliner in which he’d just been sitting. James watches him go, fidgeting with the pen in his hand. The noise had disrupted his train of thought, the unexpected intrusion threading him with tension. If Steve had been expecting company, he would have mentioned it. But who knocks on the door? Certainly not a covert enemy.

He hears the door open, and voices: Steve’s, and another masculine voice. It sounds familiar, though James cannot place it. Soon he hears the door close, and the sound of footsteps nearing.

Steve appears in the doorway of the living room, another man close behind him. “This is Sam,” he says to James. He’s smiling, but the other man isn’t.

James stands. “I know you,” he says. The Triskelion.

Sam grimaces at that, but then he laughs. “Yeah, man, we’ve met. DC.”

He extends a hand, and James shakes it. They’d fought, he recalls. The thought makes him uncomfortable, but Sam seems not to be holding a grudge.

“No hard feelings,” Sam tells him. “Although you could have told Steve to call me.”

“That’s on me, not him,” Steve says, nudging Sam with his shoulder. “You didn’t have to come all the way out here.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Pretty sure I did.”

Steve steers Sam in the direction of the kitchen. “Join us when you’re done,” he says over his shoulder as he goes. James nods, bewildered, and returns to the couch. He picks up his journal and tries to recall what he’d wanted to write about. He and Steve had discussed setting a consultation date for a scan, and he’d also been grappling with some of the things he and Dr. Rupinski had talked about last week. None of what had been stirring in his mind before Sam’s arrival has stuck around, though, so after some absentminded scribbling, he closes his journal and stands again.

He wonders what really brought Sam here. It seems ridiculous to James that he would travel all this way just to see and catch up with Steve, though he supposes he might do the same in the right circumstances. What circumstances would those be? He doesn’t know. He heads to the kitchen.

There, he finds Sam and Steve at the table. Sam has one hand wrapped loosely around a bottle of beer, the other gesticulating as he tells Steve about some recent DC top story.

“We could use you, man,” he says to Steve at the end of it. Then he glances up at James. “Hey, look who’s back! Finally someone interesting to talk to.”

Steve laughs at that, and gestures for James to join them at the table. James obeys, sliding into his seat and looking between them uncertainly.

“We’re just shooting the shit,” Sam says by way of explanation.

“Still not sure exactly why,” Steve adds, glancing at Sam.

Sam shakes his head in response. “I can’t visit a friend?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. Before Steve can respond, he concedes: “Alright, you got me. I’m here for work _and_ play. One of your friends up here called on me.”

“For what, though?” Steve prompts. He’s leaning forward slightly, looking at Sam intently, and James feels like he can practically see the machinations of Steve’s mind at work. It’s something bigger than the two of them, he thinks.

“Federal government isn’t thrilled about the whole Winter Soldier debacle,” Sam says. He glances at James. “No offense,” he adds.

“None taken,” James says.

“So they’re putting together a case—kind of like Natasha’s, sounds like. I really don’t have a great read on it, on account of the fact that I don’t work for the government, but shit will definitely be hitting the fan within the next few months. And you being out of the spotlight for so long has roused public suspicion, too.”

“You came all the way to upstate New York to be my PR manager?” Steve asks.

“You’re pretty, but you’re not very smart, you know.” Sam takes a sip of his beer. “I’m just warning you, you’re gonna need to give a statement pretty soon to clear the air. Nothing about how you’re housing the Soldier, here,” he nods towards James, “but at least acknowledge some of the rumors about him.”

“Alright, I’ll talk to Maria about it,” Steve says. “But we’re at Stark Enterprises once a week, someone there definitely could have mentioned this. Why are _you_ here, specifically?”

“What, I’m not allowed to want to see Captain American?” Sam grins, and Steve smiles back at him, shaking his head. James is enthralled by their easy camaraderie, and can’t help but contrast it with the stiltedness of his own relationship with Steve.

“Get to it, already,” Steve says.

“You’re not gonna like it,” Sam says, turning serious. He looks at James again, and then back at Steve.

Before Steve can inquire further, James says, “It’s about me.”

Steve glances between James and Sam, finally directing his gaze toward the latter. “Is that true?”

Sam nods, looking chagrined. “They wanted someone familiar with the situation, and the people already up here are busy handling the bureaucratic stuff.”

Steve looks pissed now, but James isn’t sure where his anger is directed. “Care to say more?”

“If you go through with removing the arm,” Sam says, glancing at James’ arm as he does so, “nobody is certain what will happen—neurologically speaking—to your man here.”

“He’s right,” James agrees, looking at Steve. Part of him feels ambushed and humiliated at the implications of Sam’s words—they’ve always been planning to take the arm, whoever _they_ are—but part of him is unsurprised that they’ve been looking into it.

“Buck hasn’t even agreed to having it removed,” Steve argues. “Why’d they call you up here now?”

“Have you looked at what’s on the flash drive?” Sam asks. He’s looking at both of them dubiously. “When was the last time you stopped by Stark Enterprises?”

“We had lunch with Maria a week ago,” Steve says.

“Six days,” James says. “We go tomorrow.”

Sam brings a hand to his face, rubbing his temple. “Jesus,” he mutters. “This is why you need a cellphone. And why Stark needs to invest in more people from the tech industry.”

“I don’t think he’d planned on absorbing SHIELD, in his defense,” Steve points out.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Sam says, “but you’re going to have to make a decision about that operation _sooner_ , rather than _later_. And I think the better option is pretty obvious.”

James flexes the hand of the metal arm and stares at Sam. “Keeping it?” he says. It certainly seems like the less risky choice, “neurologically speaking.”

Sam shakes his head. “There’s a thing embedded in the arm,” he says. James and Steve both nod. “Well, apparently it’s got an expiration date. And you don’t want it to expire into your bloodstream.”

Steve winces at that, but James isn’t surprised. If anything, he’s relieved: it seems so obvious now.

“Cryo,” he says. “Right?”

Sam nods. “At this point, it’s too late for another cryo session to re-stabilize it—not that that’s the best decision anyways,” he adds hastily, glancing at a scowling Steve.

“This is my fault,” Steve says. His brow is furrowed intensely, and he’s rubbing his jaw. “Sam, you were right, I’m too _old-fashioned_ …”

“It’s not your fault,” Sam and James say in unison. Sam raises his eyebrows at James, who continues, “You didn’t implant it, you didn’t know. Your people noticed early enough that it can be removed… you did everything right. You saved my life.”

Steve looks at James, surprised. James looks away, embarrassed.

“So you’ll let Stark’s people remove it, then?” Sam asks. James nods, because he doesn’t see how he has a choice.

“Wish they’d mentioned this a week ago,” he says.

“Everything’s decentralized thanks to HYDRA,” Sam answers. “If they’d known a week ago, they would have. Maria probably told you how much trouble they’ve been having with decrypting shit.”

“How much time?”

“Another week, maybe two, is the current estimate.”

“Christ,” Steve mutters. He glances at James. “I’m really sorry, Buck,” he says. His expression is so earnest, so apologetic, that James feels embarrassed to witness it.

“Can they do it tomorrow?” James asks.

“I think so,” Sam answers, uncertain. “I can find out.”

“Are you crashing here?” Steve asks.

“Nah, with Maria. I’ll be at the office tomorrow, though, arm-removal or not. And Steve, I’m really sorry about this.”

“Apologize to him, not me.” Steve nods in the direction of James, who meets Sam’s eyes awkwardly.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says sincerely.

“Not your fault,” James says. “Thank you for telling us,” he adds.

Sam is understandably disinterested in sticking around, so after he calls Maria from his cellphone (James realizes then how strange it is that Steve doesn’t have one), he hits the road.

“I’ll see you boys tomorrow,” he says at the front door. He’s smiling, and James finds that despite the shitty circumstances of their meeting, he likes Sam. He likes all of Steve’s friends, he thinks.

“Thanks, Sam,” Steve says. He and Sam embrace, and Sam slaps him on the back as they pull apart.

“Think about investing in a cellphone, Cap,” he replies as he heads toward the driveway. James and Steve watch him pull away, and then head back inside.

“Jesus,” Steve says as he closes the door. He turns to James. “Shit, I’m so sorry.” He brings his hands up to James’ shoulders, looking intently at James. James meets his gaze, unsure of what to do.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Steve repeats. He brings one hand to cup James’ face. “I never wanted to do this to you,” he says softly.

“It’s okay, Steve,” James says. “It’s not your fault.” And it isn’t. James is upset, yeah, because he’s once again having his autonomy wrenched from him, but that’s not Steve’s fault. He doesn’t think any of Steve’s people are to blame—how could they be? They didn’t give him the arm, they didn’t embed the arm with a toxic ampule, they certainly didn’t invent the technology that connected the arm to his nerves… It was all HYDRA.

“I will never let this happen again,” Steve says. He lets his hands drop, and James immediately misses the feeling. “I swear.”

“I know,” James says. He hesitates. “Steve, if I…” he trails off. Steve is looking at him curiously, so he hesitantly continues. “If they can’t figure out how to sever everything without—triggering it, I just want you to know that I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

Steve stares at him for a beat, and then pulls him close. He embraces James tightly; James, surprised, returns the embrace.

“You’ll be fine,” he says. “And you don’t need to thank me. _‘Til the end of the line_ , right?”

James comes to fully appreciate, then, the depth of Steve’s love for Bucky. It stings a little, knowing that it’s not really directed at him, but it still evokes a certain bittersweet pleasure in James.

“The biometric scan they did, the first time we were at the building, remember?” Steve says. He pulls away again, looking at James.

James nods.

“I’m sure they can figure out a lot just from that, so don’t worry. They have the technology, they have the genius, they’ll handle it.” Steve says it with confidence, but James knows better. Steve is no more certain than James is.

“And the full scan,” James says. He’d agreed to a full scan before the procedure, though he still doubts it will serve any purpose other than detailing the destructive uses of the arm.

“Between the two, I’m sure they’ll piece it all together. Bruce is brilliant, you met him. I’m sure he and Tony will have it all figured out by the time we arrive.”

James decides to trust Steve’s judgment, because the other option is mourning his own imminent death. Besides, Bruce had been right once before in matters of James’ physiology, so he could pull it off again. James hopes he does, selfishly, because he finds he doesn’t want to stop experiencing life with Steve.

*

They don’t talk much on the drive to New York. Steve turns on the radio and lets the music play low; James writes in his journal (he thinks he should be writing about what’s ahead, but instead he finds himself writing about Steve). James supposes that if Steve’s friends can’t diffuse the arm when they remove it, Steve will inherit the journal; if he reads it, James has decided, he ought to know how grateful James is.

James can discern from Steve’s white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel that he’s stressed about this whole affair. This is not surprising: what had he risked to find James? On the other hand, what had he gained? James feels he hasn’t brought much to Steve’s life beyond the complications of becoming James’ steward, but he also hopes Steve has enjoyed their time together as much as he has. He thinks they’ve both had an okay time of it, what little time it was.

James feels emotions washing over him, an unsteady tide of feeling. He regrets what he is, but more because of the indirect effects than the direct ones. He wishes he hadn’t killed Howard, a friend, and he wishes he had not killed the others, too. They were simply people, like Steve and James, but most of them would be dead by now anyways. Bucky, though, the person James used to be… He did not deserve the unfortunate resurrection that befell him. In spite of that, though, James is grateful for his connection to Bucky, because without it there would be nothing tethering him to Steve. Steve, who has stuck by his side despite the obvious absence of Bucky in James. At first he does not realize that there are tears running down his face. He brushes them away and turns to the window, feeling ashamed though uncertain of why.

Steve puts his right hand on James’ knee at one point, and leaves it there until they’ve crossed the bridge and reached the clamoring city. When he brings his hand back to the steering wheel, James silently mourns the loss of Steve’s touch. The minutiae are what he likes most about him and Steve, and this awareness is what feeds his melancholy as they approach the building. He and Steve might as well be strangers in many ways, yet there is such intimacy between them somehow; it runs through them like a thread. A relic from Steve’s life with Bucky.

They walk from the garage to the building in silence, but when they reach the lobby Steve puts his hand on James’ shoulder and looks at him seriously.

“This will go well,” he says firmly, as if giving mission orders. James recalls the Commandos, whom he knows only from the ephemera included in Bucky’s biographies.

“Yes,” James agrees, because he believes it’s what Steve wants to hear.

“I mean it,” Steve says. “They’re the smartest people in the world—they won’t do wrong by you, Buck.”

James smiles at that name, briefly closes his eyes. In some ways it’s a relief that he does not remember being Bucky—not enough to identify himself in the nickname, anyways—because he suspects this would be all the more terrifying if he did. Even with his scant memories of life with Steve and before, he feels bereft. Losing everything just as quickly as he’d received it: Steve stepping into his life as though it were easy, and now, just as easily, James might be falling out of it. The more things change, the more they stay the same, he thinks. Words from a place or a time he cannot recall, but here they are nonetheless, in his head.

“Everything you did for me,” James says quietly, “I can’t ever thank you enough for it, Steve. You were really good to me.” He knows he’s already said it, but it bears repeating.

Steve looks at him, his expression softer. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says. “I’ll always be in your corner; you’re my friend.”

He’d said something like that when he’d first appeared, too. In the hotel, all those weeks ago. A friend for life, across lifetimes. James feels sad then for a different reason: Steve has lost so much, and though James won’t pretend to know what he means to Steve, surely it will not be easy to lose him after all it took to find him.

They stare at each other for a moment, an air of uncertainty running like a current between them, but the moment is broken by the appearance of Maria.

“I’m really sorry, James,” she says gently once she reaches them. Her expression, like Steve’s, is soft.

“It’s okay,” he says. It feels like a naïve response, or at least an incongruous one, but he isn’t sure what else to say. It’s not her fault, in any case. She doesn’t offer any platitudes, and Steve makes no attempt at small talk, so they silently go to the elevator.

When the elevator opens, Sam is there. He and Maria nod to one another, and Sam puts his hand on Steve’s shoulder. He nods to James, who nods back, feeling absurd.

“I’m not going to pretend this isn’t shitty,” Sam says as the elevator doors close, breaking the silence. “But between Stark and Banner, I’m sure you’re going to end up better than you were before.”

“Just losing the arm will be an improvement,” James says, though the claim is more speculative than assured. Surely it’s better not to have a destructive weapon integrated into his body, but it is still a part of him now, and one that he’s had for as long as he can remember. It’s the only tangible distinction between himself and Bucky.

“Well, there you go,” Sam says, nodding.

When they reach the forty-third floor, three people are waiting for them. James recognizes Bruce and the woman, Natasha, but the third man is new. He’s familiar, though, and James realizes he must be Tony Stark.

“So you’re the guy,” Stark says. He looks at James as if sizing him up. “Let’s take a look at that arm.” He’s all business, and it puts James on edge, but Bruce gives him a sympathetic look. He surveys it only briefly before turning away.

“Let’s move,” he says, already walking. Bruce glances at Steve, whose eyes are on James.

“I’ll be there in a second,” Steve promises. James reluctantly follows Stark and Bruce to another area while Steve joins Maria, Natasha, and Sam, who continue to convene near the elevator.

James hears them discussing press and statements, wonders if Steve will make a public announcement about him. He supposes the American public won’t be as interested—or at least not as hostile—if the news is of his death.

They end up in a vast room extensively equipped with unfamiliar but clearly sophisticated technology. James wants to leave.

“The scan won’t take long,” Bruce says gently, distracting James from his survey of the room. Stark is fiddling with some heavy tech in a corner of the room, something not unlike the fridge HYDRA had used to store the asset, but smaller and more in the spirit of the twenty-first century.

“Alright, Barnes,” Stark says. “You’re up. Scan time.” He gestures to a cot on the far side of the room, reminiscent of a hospital bed and equally sterile, and James obediently goes to it. He sits on the cot but doesn’t lie down until Bruce gestures for him to do so, reluctant to make himself yet more vulnerable. Once he’s on his back, Bruce holds up a needle.

“You’ll metabolize this really fast, but it should calm your nerves at least, if you want,” he offers. James shakes his head, and Bruce sets it aside.

Stark comes over then, the machine under his arm. “This bad boy is going on your arm,” he says by way of explanation. Bruce pushes a cart over and Tony hefts the machine onto it. “Arm,” he says. James obediently (but begrudgingly) holds out his arm, which recalibrates as he does so, and Tony assembles the device around the arm as soon as it’s stopped whirring.

Steve enters the room then, and James watches him as he crosses the room. “What the hell is this?” he asks Stark. “This isn’t the model you were working on.” That makes James uneasy: are they stealing the tech? And was Steve in on it all along? That goes against everything James has come to believe and understand about Steve, so he does his best to dismiss the thought.

“Well, the original was for a very different thing, if you’ll recall,” Stark answers. He’s fiddling with the outside of the machine, and James can hear that inside it’s probing his arm with what sounds like fine metal tools or pins. A soft choir of metallic taps.

“Human technology is generally more straightforward, but also more delicate, than interdimensional rocks,” Bruce adds.

Steve looks at James, then, and James can read the concern plain on his face. That’s comforting.

“I’m okay,” he says. “I don’t feel anything.”

“The arm is insensitive to pain?” Stark asks, raising his eyebrows. James nods, though he isn’t sure whether that’s always been the case. It’s true now, anyways, and has been since before the Triskelion event.

“Well, that raises some questions about the extent of the assimilation,” Bruce says, running a hand through his hair.

“What does that mean?” Steve asks.

“Nothing that we didn’t already have under consideration,” Bruce answers. “Tony, is your thing done yet?”

Stark is done prodding at his machine, which seems to have withdrawn its little needles. “Yep,” he says. He presses a few keys and then unlatches it from the metal arm. “Info should all be on the screen now. Ampule’s there, anyways. We’ll have this thing detached in an hour,” he says confidently to James, who’s now sitting upright. James does not find this at all reassuring, and looks to Steve. Steve looks skeptical as well, though he schools his expression when he notices James watching him.

“If you say so,” James says. “So do you have something to knock me out?”

“Yes, actually,” Bruce says, sounding pleased. “We developed a compound that should keep you under for a couple of hours. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll inject it and we’ll get things started.”

Bruce and Stark seem confident—excited, even—and James recognizes in them the hunger for intensity that defines so many people who make careers of danger. They thrive under pressure, which James supposes is good news for him.

“Can I stay?” Steve asks.

“I don’t see why not,” Stark answers. “Won’t be very interesting for you though. We’re just dissembling Soviet microtech. You might want to pull up a chair.” He walks away, to the monitor, and James watches him survey the digital images of the arm.

“Did you figure out a game plan for the other thing?” Bruce asks Steve.

James glances between them and Steve waves a hand dismissively. “Maria’s going to field a few questions and give a statement on behalf of the Avengers. Me doing a publicity gimmick is contingent on a few things.” He looks at James, who understands then just what he means. If James dies, Steve won’t be making a public appearance any time soon.

“Okay, team,” Stark says, rejoining them. “The screen’s got just about all the info we need, so the mission’s a go.”

“Time for drugs,” Banner tells James, holding up a needle once again. Judging from the color of the fluid, it’s indeed a different mixture than whatever he’d offered the first time. James offers his flesh arm, and Bruce somewhat gracelessly injects it.

“Out of practice,” he says apologetically.

“Well, you hit the vein,” Stark says helpfully. “That’s what matters.”

James intends to tell Bruce that it’s alright, that it had hardly hurt, but he feels the effects of the injection immediately and lies back. “Don’t kill me, please,” he says, his words sounding slurred. He isn’t sure whether he’d pronounced them like that or he’s just not processing sound properly. He closes his eyes, and feels a hand on his leg. He thinks it must be Steve, because he can faintly hear Bruce and Stark discussing the mechanics of something. They can have the arm, he decides, and they can do what they want with its technology. He doesn’t want this responsibility anymore, and if Steve trusts them then that’s enough. As long as they let him keep living, keep enjoying life with Steve.

Though he can still feel Steve’s hand on his leg, James finds that he misses him. Such a curious feeling. It’s been too long since he’s seen him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy crap this took a while, sorry!!! and this is gonna require one more chapter to wrap things up x___x as always no beta and minimal proofreading (SHAME ON ME! but i'm lazy and busy unfortunately) - let me know what you think! <3


	6. hello again, friend of a friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looks on in silence, awash with thought, nerves, emotion. He’s in love with his best friend, and he knows as much.

Steve looks at Bucky’s face, admires the open and unbothered expression. Idly he thinks that this will be the last time he sees it—Bucky (that is, James) unconscious yet serene, his body and countenance not drawn taut as if in anticipation of some imminent conflict.

Tony and Bruce work diligently on the arm, prodding and prying at the minute chinks in its plates. They’ve been steadily chipping away at a spot close to the shoulder for almost half an hour now, and the length of time paired with the lack of progress has Steve feeling uneasy. Shouldn’t they have achieved more by now? He doesn’t doubt his colleagues’ skill (or their intentions) but watching them makes him restless, and he resents being unable to help Bucky.

He wonders if his presence is disruptive, but Tony and Bruce have paid him no mind since beginning their task. Steve would leave if he were told to do so, but he would hate to abandon Bucky like that.

Yes, Bucky. Steve has tried to call him James, as much in his head as aloud, and he sometimes succeeds in this endeavor. But it’s impossible to maintain it when the man on the cot before him now is so much like Steve’s one-time best friend—and harder still because James himself had granted permission, “you can call me Bucky,” as if things are ever that simple. Steve supposes sometimes they are. Steve understands the world differently, and the world _is_ different.

Steve does believe he’s still Bucky, that the man he once knew and loved is still fundamentally governing James’ character, but he’s different, too. And so is Steve—how couldn’t they be? Displaced in time and memory; their very existence is anomalous. They’ve got time, though, Steve thinks. Or they will if this ends okay. Steve believes—aggressively believes—that it will, because it must. They’ve lost too much to lose again now. Yes, they’ll have time, time for Steve to learn the differences between Bucky and James, or for James to learn the similarities between himself and Bucky.

Steve watches Tony uncover sinew and wire. James doesn’t believe he could be Bucky, that much is clear. It’s not just the lack of memory; he thinks they’re too different to be the same person. Or something like that, anyways. But doesn’t every person undergo constant change? Isn’t it true that no person stays the same over a lapse of years, let alone decades? Yet there are things that survive the changes, and Steve sees these things in his friend. James feels differently, and it’s—for the most part—deeply interior. This was true of Bucky, too. Not like Steve, heart firmly on sleeve, no. Bucky was always turned inward in a way Steve was not, and the same quality is true of James, though he is either less aware of or less beholden to (perhaps both) this habit.

Bruce and Tony are talking quietly to each other, thought Steve doesn’t listen because the technical language means nothing to him. He watches Bucky (James), who still looks peaceful but has begun to twitch occasionally, as if dreaming. The arm seems far from ready for removal, though Tony has clipped and removed a long segment of wire ending in a sort of bulb. It’s strange to think the arm will soon be off (Steve would cast it into the fires of Tolkien’s Mordor if he could); Steve’s gotten used to its whirring and clicking over the past couple months. A background note in his and Bucky’s life that he’d grown accustomed to, even taken comfort in. There he was, in the house: Steve could tell from the hum of his arm.

They don’t know what this will do to Bucky neurologically, Sam had said. And this much had been evident before, too: of course no one can account for the intricacies of the arm and its relation to its symbiote, Bucky. The blueprints are a whisper in the wind, everything must be learned through reverse engineering and guesswork. Though Bruce and Tony move easily and in tandem as they perform their ministrations, Steve knows they’re fumbling blind. And James had known as much, too.

But this kind of thinking is unproductive, and liable to make Steve more anxious than he already is.

He looks on in silence, awash with thought, nerves, emotion. He’s in love with his best friend, and he knows as much. It had been true before Peggy, and it’s true again after her. He’d loved her, too, adored her—but she isn’t here now, and some semblance of Bucky is. Things were more complicated back then in some ways, but also less so: his love for Bucky had been set aside by his love for Peggy, but without her there’s nothing to dam up all the feelings he’d tried so long to keep lidded. And Bucky—that is, James—knows. He must: Steve hasn’t been particularly discreet. The sonnet, the touches, he knows he’s on the precipice of something and that James is no idiot. But they haven’t properly talked about it, and presumably they won’t. There’s no diplomatic way to do it. How can Steve even do something like that? Admitting his feelings will only further obfuscate their relationship and James’ relationship with his—their—past.

Steve is drawn out of his reverie by the harsh whispers of his colleagues.

“We’ll have to sever these to detach it, but that’ll impede any attempts to attach a replacement,” Bruce is muttering, gesturing at something inside the arm.

Tony glances up at Steve, no doubt sensing his stare. “Steven,” he says with a nod of acknowledgement.

“What are you talking about?” Steve says. Bruce looks pained.

“We clipped the ampule—and scraped out some other stuff—but to take the whole arm off we have to sever organic nerves, looks like,” he explains.

“How do you know that you’ve gotten everything toxic out of the arm?” Steve asks. 

“We don’t,” Tony answers. “There’s technically no way to verify.”

“We definitely took out some toxic things, though,” Bruce adds, “so it depends on how thorough they were with their security.”

Steve stares at them. Bruce, abashed, looks down at the exposed wires of the Winter Soldier’s arm.

“I can reconfigure the wiring,” Tony offers. “But if we fully detach the arm it’ll make it harder to attach another one later.” Hastily, he adds, “Not impossible, though.”

What would James want them to do? Steve is frustrated, once again, that they’d been blindsided with this. He’d seemed to look forward to getting rid of the arm, the relic of HYDRA’s hold on him. On the other hand, he’d clearly been uneasy about the whole thing.

“Don’t sever anything,” Steve says.

“We won’t be able to study the tech,” Tony warns. Steve knows that he and Bruce want to study the arm and its technology, and he also knows that this is part of why James was so hesitant to have it examined. Steve knows this is selfish, but repurposing the technology for the good of humanity is secondary—at least for now—to making sure this doesn’t hurt Bucky. Of course, studying the technology would also be to Bucky’s benefit…

“I don’t care,” Steve retorts. “Just make sure he won’t die and that nothing you do hurts him.” After a moment, he adds, “Please.”

Tony and Bruce exchange a look, and Steve scowls at them. “What was that look,” he demands.

“You’re pretty tense, Cap, that’s all,” Tony says. “You wanna take a lap or something?” 

Steve sighs, closing his eyes, and then stands, because Tony’s right. His watchful hovering isn’t helpful—it might even be harmful.

He looks at both of his colleagues before he goes, considering them. Tony is unreadable, his thoughts perfectly obscured by his seemingly permanent veneer of arrogance. Bruce is equally inscrutable, perhaps intentionally so; it’s impossible to know their fears, their suspicions—even their intentions, though Steve doesn’t question those. He resents that he’s had to relinquish Bucky (James) to their care, if only because he knows Bucky himself had no agency in the decision. Of course, if all goes well, there will be time to compensate for this final imposition on Bucky’s autonomy: Steve won’t interfere again.

After he leaves them, he paces aimlessly, taut with frenetic and objectless energy. Sam, Nat, and Maria are elsewhere, no doubt out of respect for Steve and deference to the procedure. Perhaps they’re tempering the looming media storm with Pepper on the publicity floor—clearly Steve’s been shirking his responsibilities a bit too much lately, because the storm has evidently been brewing for some time. If Nat’s back here to help handle it, it’s certainly nothing to scoff at. This makes it all the more surprising that his colleagues and friends have kept it from him for so long.

But it doesn’t matter at all to Steve, because he’s loved these past few fumbling months, relearning the nature of his friend, re-acquainting himself with their relationship and helping Bucky do the same—reinventing it together. Whatever he’s been ignoring, whatever Maria’s had the kindness to shield him from, it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Steve knows this even without the whole story. Whatever he has to catch up on now, it’s not more important than what he’s been doing.

He stews silently for some time in the vast, empty room but is eventually interrupted from his thoughts by the reappearance of Sam and Maria. They both look at him questioningly as they exit the elevator, but he only shakes his head in response.

“They’re not done yet?” Sam asks, raising his eyebrows. Maria gives him a look, which does not go unnoticed by Steve, but Sam ignores her. “Whatever they’re doing now, I’m sure it’s just cosmetics.”

Steve smiles wanly at that and wishes he could believe it, but he won’t feel reassured until he sees Bucky awake. “They seemed to know what they were doing, but they can’t get the arm off.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I can say with confidence that they prepared for just about every possible contingency when it comes to the structure of the arm,” Maria says. “Whatever’s preventing them from taking it off now isn’t going to be an issue forever—they’ll figure it out later if they don’t know. If James wants them to, that is.”

Steve nods, considering her words. He doesn’t know whether Bucky would choose to take off the arm if given the choice without concern for consequence. It seems likely that he would, though.

“So what do I need to know about the government charges?” Steve asks, half to distract himself and half because he’ll have to face the music sooner or later.

Maria grimaces. “They want to try James for the Winter Soldier’s crimes. He _will_ be acquitted on all charges since obviously he was not acting of his own free will—we’ll make sure of that—but the proceedings are set to be highly publicized since it’ll be a landmark case.”

“This can’t be settled in a way that’s _not_ public?” Steve asks, already knowing the answer.

“No. But we’ve requested a three-month delay for rehabilitation before he has to stand trial, and it’s been granted, so we still have time.” Maria looks at Steve apologetically.

Steve nods, taking it in. It frustrates him, all this bureaucracy, all the yellow tape between Bucky and whatever semblance of normalcy his life might yet obtain. More than that, though, it frustrates Steve that he can’t protect Bucky from it all.

“Do they know about—?” He gestures vaguely in the direction of Tony’s operation room.

“No,” Maria says. “Steve, I promise the trial will be over in six months and James won’t ever have to look back again, unless he wants to. But after the trial people will be looking to recruit him, and other people will want to hurt him…” she trails off, looking at him pointedly.

“Thank you, Maria,” Steve says. He doesn’t mean to be evasive, but he can’t answer her silent question. He doesn’t know how he’ll protect Bucky, or whether he wants to drag him into life as a so-called Avenger. He doesn’t know the best course of action or where to go for answers.

Before he can make up something else to assuage Maria’s concerns, they hear a clatter and shouting from the other room. _Bucky_.

Steve, the quickest to act and the fastest of the group, enters the room first: he finds Bucky sitting up on the cot, clutching a tangle of wires still attached to the inner machinations of his metal arm. He looks panicked and lost. Bruce is nearby, gathering the spray of tools and tech that Bucky must have scattered across the floor. Tony is holding Bucky’s metal arm by the wrist, and when Steve enters he makes meaningful eye contact.

“Steve?” Bucky asks, drawing Steve’s gaze away from Tony. “What’s going on?”

Steve approaches Bucky slowly but intently, and when he’s close enough, he puts his hand on Bucky’s leg: an anchoring touch. “Bruce and Tony are working on your arm,” he says, his voice measured.

“It’s not over?” Bucky asks. He sounds distraught, and Steve wishes he could do something. He looks at Tony imploringly, unsure of what to say himself.

“Almost done,” Tony says. “I swear.”

Bruce stands and skirts around Steve and the cot to place the collected tools and pieces onto the cart beside Tony. Glancing at him, Steve realizes that Bucky must not have used the metal arm to knock things over: everything that had been scattered was to his right. His reaction had favored one side.

“What do you guys still need to do?” Steve asks. He feels Bucky’s hand cover his own on Bucky’s thigh and, realizing how tightly he’s gripping Bucky, Steve relaxes his hand slightly. 

“We were trying to bring the arm back online when he woke up,” Bruce explains. “We had to cut a lot of stuff to get to the implant, which means motor function is shot, but we can’t remove the whole arm—at least not now—because of the complexity of the design.”

“It’s a dead limb,” Tony adds, driving the point home. He looks meaningfully at Steve, who looks down at Bucky.

“Is that permanent?” Bucky asks uncertainly.

Bruce and Tony are both still fiddling with various wires and plates in the arm, and neither answers immediately. Finally, Bruce says, “We can end things now, but like Tony said…” he trails off and shrugs helplessly. “We can probably swap it for a replacement later, though we don’t have a concrete timeline for that.”

Steve is about to press them for more information, but Bucky speaks first. “I don’t care,” he says. “Leave it.” He meets Steve’s gaze. “I want it to be over now.”

Taking the cue, Tony quickly tucks several unruly wires back into the arm and replaces the portion he’d removed. The arm looks slightly disjointed in that spot, one segment of plates slightly raised as though mid-recalibration. Bucky lifts his hand and runs it over that part, manually smoothing them down. They clack against one another.

“Phantom limb,” Bucky says quietly, as if to himself.

Steve feels suddenly guilty. It all seems so ridiculous, so impossibly absurd, that looking at Bucky with his hand resting on his mechanized arm makes him feel claustrophobic. He’d had the arm for probably seventy years, and Steve’s (albeit indirectly) taken it from him in an hour. What’s worse, the arm itself is still there—with none of the function of a limb and all of the reminders of its history. Steve feels like a monster. And it had completely blindsided Bucky, too—well, both of them, but Steve wasn’t the one affected by it all. He should have gone through the contents of the drive right away, should have looked into everything on hand the second he’d finally gotten Bucky back. It had been naïve of him not to, and it had hurt the person he cares about most in the world.

“So you’re done?” Steve says, looking at Tony and Bruce. “We’re clear to go?”

His colleagues both nod, and through their taken-aback expressions Steve realizes how forcefully he’d spoken. “Sorry,” he says awkwardly, drawing a hand anxiously through his hair. “Thank you,” he adds. He exhales. “Seriously, thank you.”

“Thank you,” Bucky echoes, though he sounds distant. Steve helps him off the cot, and he repeats the words once he’s standing, this time with more clarity.

“You don’t have to thank us,” Bruce says. At the same time, Tony says, “Not sure why you’re thanking us for killing your arm, but any time.” Steve scowls at Tony, who holds his hands up in a false display of innocence.

“Had to happen,” Bucky answers mildly.

Steve wraps a protective arm around Bucky’s shoulders and steers him out of the room. “I’m sure they can get the arm back online later if you want them to,” he says, even though he doesn’t know if that’s true.

“I don’t,” Bucky says with surprising conviction. Before he can elaborate (though Steve isn’t sure that he would have), they come upon the rest of Steve’s colleagues.

Everybody looks at Bucky, and none of them are even subtle about it. Bucky doesn’t seem to notice, though: his mind is elsewhere, and he’s looking slightly to the side of the group in front of him. No one says anything, so Steve gestures for everyone to move and continues to gently direct Bucky in the direction of the doorway.

Tony and Bruce have followed Steve and Bucky, so now everyone is in the cavernous waiting room—it feels a bit like a foyer, Steve thinks, though really it’s underutilized office space—together. Steve is itching to get Bucky home, to put this whole banal nightmare behind them both, but seeing how many people had invested time and effort in this procedure slows him down.

“Thank you,” he says again, this time to all of them. 

“Go home,” Natasha says. Her voice is firm but she’s smiling: for now, at least, the hard part is over.

“Expect an invoice in the mail,” Tony adds.

“You’re all wonderful,” Bucky says. It occurs to Steve that he may still be feeling the effects of the Banner-Stark wonder-drug. He says it faintly, almost as if to himself, but he’s looking at Steve’s friends.

Nobody really knows what to say to that, and Steve decides not to give them the chance. “Yes, they are,” he agrees, jamming the elevator button. Mercifully, the doors open immediately, and he directs Bucky into the elevator.

“Thank you,” Bucky says softly as the doors shut. It makes something in Steve’s chest constrict, and he draws Bucky closer to his side, unable to resist the pull of affection he feels.

They’re quiet on the descent, and it’s only once they get to the ground floor that Steve starts to feel guilty about ditching his friends so unceremoniously. He feels like he exploited them and bailed, but the thought of lingering any longer there and discussing either the immediate future (the inevitable People versus James Buchanan Barnes case, for example) or the inanities of their recent vigilantism is unbearable, especially with Bucky there.

“I wish they could have removed it,” Bucky says as they walk to the car. His tone betrays no emotion, but Steve understands his disappointment.

“They’ll remove it later, if you want that,” Steve says. “At least it can’t kill you anymore.”

“Hopefully,” Bucky adds darkly. Then he smiles and looks at Steve. “That disturbed you, didn’t it?”

Steve rolls his eyes but concedes, “I’d kill Tony if he missed anything.”

“Not Bruce?” Bucky says teasingly.

“Can you blame me?” Steve shrugs, breaking out into a grin in spite of himself. “No, they’re both great guys.”

“I can tell,” Bucky agrees.

They’ve reached the car, so Steve unlocks it and they both get in. After he starts the engine, Steve glances at Bucky. Bucky is absently fiddling with the fingers of the bionic arm, curling and uncurling them with the help of his other hand. The surge of fondness Steve feels is impossible to smother, and suddenly he knows that he can’t keep waiting in silence because there may never be a perfect time. 

He feels giddy and terrified at once, like he’s riding the Cyclone and not sitting in the car. “You know something?” he says. Bucky looks at him, questioning. Steeling himself, he continues: “I don’t think I ever told you how much I missed you.”

He pauses, and he can feel Bucky watching him intently. He turns the keys in the ignition but he doesn’t take the car out of park. Over the low hum of the engine, he says, “I missed you from 1945 until the day you frisbeed my shield back at me on the roof of my old apartment.” He laughs awkwardly then. “I missed you every day I spent tracking you.”

“Do you still miss me?” Bucky asks softly.

“I missed you when you were being operated on,” Steve admits. “This isn’t a very good speech, but the important thing is _no_ , I don’t miss you now. I don’t miss you when I have you here with me.”

“Even though I’m—?” Bucky waivers.

“Even though you’re James?” Steve asks. “James, Bucky, I swear… You’re the same man I always knew, even if you don’t see it. Even if you never do, I can see it every day. I loved the man I knew back then and—I love the man I know now.” He looks meaningfully at James, who looks back at him uncertainly.

“I know Bucky loved you,” James starts, haltingly. His eyes are searching, as if he’s waiting for some sign that Steve will argue or protest. “I don’t know what I feel.” He turns away slightly, lowering his gaze. “I want to be allowed to love you,” he adds quietly.

Steve sits with the words for only a moment before saying, “I promise, you’re allowed.” He laughs, then, still caught on that crest of giddy terror. “You don’t have to love me right now,” he affirms, “but you’re absolutely allowed.”

He lets the words sit for a moment and then he puts the car in gear: they’re going home.

*

In the weeks after Bruce and Stark gut the metal arm, James continues trying to find his footing as a civilian. He dutifully attends his sessions with Dr. Rupinski and journals frequently (he finds it surprisingly enjoyable and has recently taken to logging whatever inanities cross his mind), and aside from the lack of mobility and sensation in his left arm, nothing much changes from the months before the operation.

James can’t help but worry, though, because of what Steve had said in the garage back in the city. He’s privately thrilled and relieved that Steve likes him—the current him, not just the man Steve grew up with—but also terrified by the thought of somehow tarnishing that affection. He doesn’t talk about these particular feelings with Dr. Rupinski, but he writes about them often. And his own feelings for Steve have developed rapidly into the sort of devotion he assumes Bucky had once felt. Hearing, in unequivocal terms, that Steve would be happy if James loved him made it suddenly impossible for James not to.

The thing is, it’s difficult. James still feels like a stranger in his own skin, habitually plagued by memories refracted in dreams and further alienated by the newest modification to his body. He and Steve sit beside each other when they watch television and sometimes their ankles touch under the table when they’re eating lunch or dinner together, but Steve is unwilling to push any further and James doesn’t know how—or whether he’s supposed to. But he wants to do something, and the urge to act builds each day, until finally he folds to the will of his emotions after dinner one night.

“Steve,” he says. They’re on the couch, side by side and lightly touching from shoulder to thigh.

Steve turns his head, leaning slightly away in order to look at James, and at the same time James leans in. For a second he panics that Steve will pull back completely, but luckily he catches on and meets James halfway: they kiss.

It’s chaste, and it only lasts a heartbeat, but James’ face is hot already. “I love you,” James says. There's no reason not to say it now. 

Steve grins. “For the record,” he says, already leaning in again, “I would have waited another seventy years for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg i'm sorry this took FOREVER to write i was waiting for the muse lol

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you liked it!! i clearly wrote this about six years after the window of relevance but oh well


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